


The Reluctant Property Of Derek Hale

by Rational_Drunk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Humour, Kicked Puppy Derek, M/M, Oblivious Stiles, Pining Derek, Porn, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3210746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rational_Drunk/pseuds/Rational_Drunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crackish adventure story which revolves around Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski. (I kind of ignore everyone else) Derek Hale pines after Stiles, Stiles is oblivious and consistently kicks him in the face.</p><p>
  <em>"Do you like me?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I'd like you better if your face weren't so close, any closer and you'd puncture me with those spikes you call a stubble."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And to Stile's great horror the alpha began rubbing his face against his own, like a puppy, but who was also a cactus.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can Paula Abdul Lose Her Head?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Good," said Derek with a grin, his eyes not leaving the road.
> 
> Stiles shot him a glare. "What?"
> 
> "Just keep talking. It's weird when you're quiet."
> 
> Stiles didn't really know what to say to that.

_CHAPTER 1: Can Paula Abdul Lose Her Head?_

* * *

_CHAPTER 1: Can Paula Abdul Lose Her Head?_

**http://archiveofourown.org/works/3210689 <-You may find the prologue here**

Stiles hates Twilight. He hates the thoughtless, unmeditated vandalism of his favourite monster. He hates the vacillating, hyperventilating,  _useless_ girl who constantly pouts at her own uselessness. He hates the creepy bedside stalking of. . . what was his name again? Vladimir? Maximilian? _. . ._ Englebert _?_

Never mind.

Despite his general contempt for the movies, Stiles discovered that he rather liked the hunky werewolf; or at least, he liked him much more than that creepy bedstalker Englebert. Then he realized that he couldn't quite recall his name either, so he considered it as a testament to his bisexuality when he substituted it with the appellation: "O he of the perfect abs".

Being a hunky werewolf, however, does  _not_ make bedside stalking any less creepy.

"Oh my  _God_ , what the hell is wrong with you?" Stiles snapped, gathering up his bedclothes in a frantic attempt to cover his bare chest; an effort not lost in futility, the darkness an inadequate apparel from those irksome red eyes; some of their many ridiculous supernatural abilities including night vision, glowing, and brooding at the bedside of innocent sleepers.

The silhouette flinched at his untimely discovery, the only indication of his agitation the mixture of guilt and surprise which flashed briefly through his dilated eyes; an indication which  _would_ have gone fortuitously unnoticed if it weren't for the fact that they were glowing like a pair of embarrassed, obese fireflies.

Fairness, like so many other abstractions, is an ideal couched only in experience, and one may argue that the alpha's life is enshrouded by the very definition of tragic injustice. Even so, the alpha could not help but lament the unfairness of it all when he was caught out in just two minutes flat, when Edward got away with doing this for  _hours._

It is important to note that Derek only watched Twilight because his sister  _begged_  him to, and obviously, he did not like it. No really, he didn't.

. . .Oh, just  _believe_  him, won't you?

Caught red-handed and red-eyed, Derek could not, for the life of him, plausibly navigate a way out of this shipwreck. He could, however, see the surprise in Stiles's eyes slowly develop into what one could only describe as disgust, a transformation every bit as horrifying as a maelstrom's growing arms, dragging Derek down into a spiraling abyss of anguish and despair.

There's an almost audible "ding" when the imaginary light house flared into life.  _Ahah_.

"It's time for you to get up." Derek's voice was archly condescending, brittle in its control.

Stiles flicked his gaze to his clock, the numbers floating a ghostly green light in the void, then turned back to meet the glowing red eyes to gawk in utter disbelief.

"It's three in the morning."

"You said that you were going to undertake the mission today. It is today."

"It's three in the morning."

"I know what time it—"

"It's  _three_  . . . in the morning." Stiles's voice was starting to acquire a definite edge.

Derek's steely tone began to falter, the imaginary lighthouse now spluttering pathetically a million miles away, abandoning the ship's captain to gaze down the maelstrom's gaping maw in hopeless desolation; he  _really_ didn't think this through. "Yes, but the early b—"

"See that bat?" Stiles cut him off with cold efficiency, pointing at the wooden club he keeps propped up against the side of his bed. "Now see your brain?" Red eyes rolled briefly upwards before their confused owner conceded to the anatomical impossibility. "If you don't get your creepy ass out right now," Stiles enunciated each word slowly, with excruciating clarity, "I am going to use  _that bat_ to very carefully bash out  _your brains_."

Derek cringed at the venom in Stile's voice. "But—"

"Out! Now!"

There was a scuffling noise as his window is hurriedly flung open, a sound followed soon after by the unpleasant cold night air buffeting his face. Stiles heaved a sigh of relief when it finally slammed shut, before allowing his head to sink back into the much craved softness of his pillow.

Yawning, Stiles blearily wondered how he got into bed in the first place; failing to do so, he gave up with a lazy shrug of his shoulders, then drifted away contentedly into his pillow; blissfully oblivious to the mournful sound of a certain dejected sourwolf slamming his car door shut.

Derek scowled into the night.

 _Or morning_.  _Whatever. It didn't seem to matter to short-fused lazybones_ idiot  _Stiles either way._

~(T-T)~

* * *

~(T-T)~

The tableau vivant is a form of art, pervasively popular before the advent of television, where an actor or a group of actors freeze shock still in mimicry of a photograph. The curiosity of tableaux lies in the incongruous contrast betwixt the confrontational experience presented by live actors and the habitual appropriation and perusal of lifeless photographic images. A most impressive modernist development in the arts, the tableau vivant fails to capture what makes photography excel, but excels in what photography fails to capture.

Stiles's room is a tableau vivant  _par excellence_.

See the opened bag of Cheetos lounging upon his desk, its cheesy inhabitants spread everywhere in the likeness of a regurgitating supermodel. Marvel at the discarded shirts and slacks strewn across the floor, in the vivid form of many exotic, if deadly flowers in full bloom, warring for dominance over the precious jungle understory. Gasp in amazement as the first golden rays of sun pierce, with considerable effort, though the thick canopy of pristine dust so affectionately coating his windows, the profound respect towards nature having always stilled hand from reaching washcloth.

Cry tears of mirth and awe when you behold the creature lying frozen in its bed, its maw gaping open in a silent snore, on its edge a single trickle of drool shining as imperiously constant as the Northern star. The creature is a work of art, the lack of any visible motion a testament to its impeccable depiction of stasis, its apparent flaccid lifelessness culminating gracefully in the form of statuesque pulchritude, elegance and grandeur. _  
_

(Perhaps donning the term "tableau vivant" is a bit of a misnomer, its literal translation being "living picture".)

Alas, that most dastardly of all human inventions, that  _philistine_ , that  _scoundrel_ , that  _infernal_ _alarm clock_ shares no such appreciation for transcendent art.

Its screeching wail tears across the room, shattering the spell, and yet the cowardly, mechanical plebeian  _bastard_  is nowhere to be seen under the unassuming camouflage of the creature's dirty underwear.

The creature does not so much as flicker.

Sing! Let us all rejoice and  _sing_ paeans of the creature's incorruptible devotion to the pictorial arts, its professional drive of unwavering immaculacy and precision, its cultured, philosophical appreciation of surreal laziness!

"Stiles, get up." Mr. Stilinski peered through the half-opened door, his arm reaching over to flick the lights on, causing the creature to growl and burrow deeper into its nest. "It's seven already."

The creature did not budge. It also thought:  _it's Saturday, so what?_

"I made breakfast."

The creature stirred. Then stilled, hunger a laughable foe against his cultured and philosophical appreciation of surreal laziness.

"There's bacon."

Well, nothing beats bacon.

\\(^.^)/

* * *

\\(^.^)/

"Maybe your police education was a little lacking in the home ec department, Dad, but  _FYI,_  bacon doesn't really go with milk _._ " Stiles glared at the sheriff over a bowl of lucky charms, his wooden spoon absently swirling little whirlpools in the rapidly discolouring milk.

"If I need to eat healthy, you eat healthy too." Mr. Stilinski shrugged unapologetically, rinsing off his own bowl.

Stiles angrily shoveled a spoonful of charms into his mouth, his cheeks puffing out with cereal as he spluttered, "Oh, you're so smug. See if I'll fall for it again the next time the sheriff cries bacon."

Mr. Stilinski shot Stiles a skeptical look. "Do you  _really_  want to risk it?"

Sometimes Stiles wished that fathers came with return policies.

"Anyway, I'm going to work," Mr. Stilinski grunted as he reached for his coat. "I won't be home till dinner, so just stay out of trouble, okay? And I don't want to catch you wandering around the woods or kidnapping people again. I just don't think that they'd care to reinstate the same sheriff twice."

Stiles stared intently at a slowly sinking marshmallow, desperately trying to ignore the familiar twinge of guilt squirming in his chest.  _  
_

The sheriff was about to leave when he turned around hesitantly. "And Stiles?"

Stiles looked up, a lone brow curved in suspicion.

"I love you."

"Oh my  _God_. DAD!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." The sheriff raised his palms before his chest in surrender. "Just . . . don't worry about what happened in the past, alright?"

For a brief, irrational moment, Stiles wondered if wearing his breakfast over his head like a hat would make the situation any less awkward.

"Look, I'm going right now. Remember, stay  _out_  of trouble," the sheriff called out before the front door slammed shut.

Having read somewhere that milk can be used to wash wounds, Stiles fervently gulped down the sugary slosh in the wild hopes that it will wash away the guilt. As he swallowed the last mouthful, he could feel a curious sensation building up in his chest. Is it actually working? This is unrea-

*burp*

Fanning away at the air, Stiles plonked the bowl into the sink, sighing contentedly as the warm water rushed over his hands, his eyes roaming aimlessly out of the window, not really taking in the view. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, its characteristic location in Beacon Hills, splashing the sleepy town in a deep blue pall. _A yawn_. His wandering eyes settled lazily on the sycamore in their backyard, its branches trembling under the weight of two incessantly chirping magpies, the pair hopping up and down along the wooden length to a cascade of golden leaves and spiralling seeds; landing haphazardly onto the roof of a black Chevy Camaro.

Drying his hands on the sides of his shirt, Stiles headed into the bathroom and squeezed some Crest onto his toothbrush. His dad's always been on his case for walking whilst brushing his teeth, but honestly, Stiles just doesn't see the harm. He grabbed a magazine with his free hand and plopped himself down before the counter, diligently brushing away as he read a very convincing article about how Christina Aguilera is secretly a Korean Spy and that Gangnam Style was ripped off an alien mating ritual.

_Wha—_

Stiles exploded, spraying the contents of his mouth like a peppergun, blanketing every reachable surface under a layer of frothy spittle and toothpaste. Notable victims include the coffeemaker, the waffle maker, the juice maker, and the now tragically headless Paula Abdul. Perhaps the real tragedy lay in the fact that her loss wasn't really all that noticeable.

Stiles dashed to the kitchen window and sure enough, the Camaro was still out there on the street, casually lounging underneath their sycamore tree.

A thousand different thoughts and emotions raced through Stiles's mind like whizzing torpedoes. The first explosion was surprise and recollection, the second was the embarrassment of having been carried all the way home, fast asleep in the alpha's arms. The third impact was the splintering irritation at said alpha's nighttime visitation. The fourth, and last torpedo was a staggering jolt, a jolt of utter disbelief which crept to the back of his throat, clenching tightly and sealing it shut.

_What. The. Hell._

Wiping away the froth on his face with the back of his sleeve, Stiles threw open his backdoor, leaving the mess unattended and the toothpaste caking around Paula's existentially disputable head. It didn't take him 5 seconds before he was staring into his own reflection banging furiously on the driver's window.

Stiles turned around to see Derek emerging from behind the passenger door, bleary-eyed from sleep and bewilderment.

"What's going o—"

Stiles didn't wait for him to finish. " _What_  the  _hell_  are you doing outside my _house_? What are you trying to pull? Wha— . . .were you  _sleeping?_  Oh my God, were you here all  _night_?" Stiles flailed and gestured so much that he must have been an octopus in his previous life.

 _"_ Stiles, slow down. I can't hear you over all the talking."

"What. Are. You. Doing. Outside. My. House?" Stiles gritted through his teeth.

Derek scowled. "I came to pick you up. You seemed to be pretty into the idea last night."

"Then why do you look like you just woke up? Oh don't tell me that you didn't, because I  _know_  that look, I see it in the mirror every morning." Stiles retorted.

"I fell asleep waiting. Your dad took longer than usu—" Derek bit his wayward tongue, cursing inwardly.

"Than  _usual?_  You have got to be kidding me,  _y_ _ou're_  Englebert _?_ "

"What?"

Stiles ignored him, slapping a palm to his forehead as he tilted his head skywards. "Then this means that I'm useless girl. This has got to be a joke; or a really bad dream. No, it's a nightmare. I'm going to pinch myself really hard, and then I'm going wake up." Stiles grabbed a patch of skin underneath his elbow, then twisted.

" _Ow._ "

Derek was still there, staring at Stiles in confusion, as manifest and real as the pain throbbing through his arm.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." said Derek. "And who's Englebert?"

"Never  _mind_  Englebert! You're stalking me. Or  _us_! Is this some kind of werewolf thing? Do we  _look_  like prey? Oh I swear, if you lay a finger on my d—"

"Stiles," said Derek, coolly cutting across Stiles's incessant babbling. "I bear no special interest in your father. I am aware of the time he goes to work because, as you obviously don't care to remember, I spent a couple of nights in his  _jail_."

Some of the tension drained from Stiles's face. "Then why were you in the passenger seat? Did you doze off on the steering wheel and then, I don't know, sleepwolf out and leap into the backseat because you thought you smelled bacon?"

Derek fixed Stiles with a blank stare.

"I just really want some bacon right now, okay?"

Blankness.

"Well? Explain!"

"First off, Stiles, pipe down. The neighbours are beginning to stare." Sure enough, Mr. Jenkins from across the street was out on his lawn, the limply-held garden hose forming a puddle of mud around his feet. Derek inspected his nails with meticulous attention. "There is nothing to explain. I drove here this morning, waited, took a short nap in the back of my car and overslept."

Stiles took a deep breath, struggling to regain his composure. It was only when he inhaled another waft of that familiar musk that he realizes how ridiculously close Derek was. Stiles took a step back.

"I. . . I've got to go, gotta clean something up," Stiles muttered, shutting his eyes as he continued wistfully, "and then I'm going to take a long, steamy hot shower."

Stiles turned to leave, jumping as a strong hand rests on his shoulder.

"I'll help."

Stiles stared at Derek's intent face in pure, unadulterated horror.

_Why's h—_

Derek paled as he realized how the teen may have misconstrued his offer.

"No! I meant that I wanted to clean with you. Wha— _No!_ " Derek flustered as the look on Stiles's face curdled. "That's not what I meant! I meant cleaning up the  _mess_ ,  _with_  you. Not cleaning  _y_ —"

"Stay. Here. I'll be back in half an hour."

Derek hung his head like a defeated puppy; this was  _not_  his week.

"Okay."

\\(T.T)/

* * *

\\(T.T)/

The trip to 5th Street was an uncomfortable one. Stiles stared out of the window, resolutely away from Derek; the colourful blur of cars flying past his unseeing vision was doing nothing to lessen the guilt gnawing away relentlessly at his insides. What would his dad say if he discovered what his son was about to do, so flippantly jeopardizing his already teetering career, when the lingering echoes of the Jackson debacle have yet to fade? That look of disappointment from his dad, that look  _of having given up_  had ground his heart to a fine dust, and Stiles feared that their relationship may not survive yet another blow.

"So. . . how's school?" said Derek awkwardly.

Stiles jerked out of his reverie to stare incredulously at the man next to him.

"What are you, a soccer mom?"

"I just want to have a conversation."

Stiles rolled his eyes. " _You_  want to  _chit-chat_? I'm sorry, but you just don't strike me as the chatty kind, you know? And you can't really blame me because anything that comes out of that mouth of yours that isn't an incomprehensible growl is some trite epithet about how much you want to rip out my throat. Maybe you don't know this, but we humans generally don't sit around gossiping about our private lives or the latest fish prices with the people who want to murder them. Also,  _FYI_ , it's ridiculous th—"

"Good," said Derek with a grin, his eyes not leaving the road.

Stiles shot him a glare. "What?"

"Just keep talking. It's weird when you're quiet."

Stiles didn't really know what to say to that. Fortunately, he didn't have to, the car slowing to a halt as Derek pulled it to the side of the road.

"The alpha pack is just around that bend over there," Derek said, gesturing to a corner about fifty yards down the pavement. "The pl—"

"Is called Beacon Hotel." Stiles interrupted irritably. "I'm not an idiot. I  _live_  here."

"Just don't want you to get lost again."

Stiles glared at the alpha, who, for a former felon, had a most unsettlingly innocent smile.

"Whatever. It's not like I'm ever actually in danger of getting lost anyway, because if you haven't noticed,  _I_  have a creepy  _stalker._ " Stiles turned to punctuate that last word with a slam of the door.

"Stiles, wait!'

Stiles rolled his eyes, leaning on the door for support. "What now?"

A pause.

"I—Just. . . be careful." Derek said at last, a strange look twisting his face.

"I'm always careful," Stiles grinned.

The door slammed shut. And all was silent.

Derek straightened, his arms falling loosely to his sides; then, very,  _very_  carefully, he banged his head into the steering wheel.

~TBC~

* * *

~TBC~

1) I do not actively think of ways to torture Derek. It just happens.

2) I do not hate Paula or Twilight! It's Stiles. Flame  _him_!


	2. Whales Belong In The Aquarium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Steels, you ne—I'm sorry, Stiles. Forgive me, but it is a rather unusual name; I want to give you a piece of advice." Anita paused, frowning in concentration, as though summoning all the wisdom of her alpha ways. Stiles's eyes widened in anticipation.
> 
> "With great power comes great responsibility."
> 
> For a breathless moment; two faces, one solemn, one incredulous, stared intently at one another.
> 
> "But that's from Spiderman!"

_CHAPTER 2: Whales Belong In The Aquarium_

* * *

_CHAPTER 2: Whales Belong In The Aquarium_

* _HONK*_

Startled, Stiles whipped around, only to stare in confusion at the Camaro driving hurriedly away. _Huh._  Weird.

Shrugging, he shuffled along, casually taking note of the morning's progress into an uncharacteristic light and warmth. It was usually a dreary little town here, home to a soporific morass of frumpy people and their frumpy activities. And yet, as he approached the bend, Stiles had no choice but to marvel at how much difference a little golden sun can make, throwing the place out of its lazy slumber like a harsh slap of ammonia.

The stores were wafting out dozens of different scents, the plurality not so much a noxious, odoriferous mess but a delightful aroma, the flowery fragrance from the florist's and the delightful smell of newly-baked bread blending together deliciously with the ambrosial bliss that is roast chicken and smoked peppers; served, with a curious but delectable hint of applewood and hickory from the furniture shop across the street.

The people seemed more alive and colourful as well, talking animatedly as they hustled down the streets, the hubbub peppered with the occasional bark of laughter or squeal of delight. The atmosphere was infectious. Invigorated, Stiles propelled himself forward with newfound confidence, which was good because there was never such a thing as too much chutzpah when you're about to. . . to. . .

_Wow._

Stepping through the ornately carved threshold to a blast of warm air, Stiles found it incredible that he, having lived in Beacon Hills for his entire life, had never been acquainted with the opulence that is Beacon Hotel.

The lobby was enormous, a cavernous atrium nearly as high as the 7-story building itself, and yet yonder ceiling was blanketed with an entire host of modern art and intricate chandeliers, which hung low enough to brush affectionately against the quivering tips of yearning palm trees. The atrium floor was covered in lush blankets and modern furniture so chic that they must have been ordered straight out of sofa-Vogue, dotted here and there with serenely gushing fountains and towering statues. It should have looked an utter mess, really, but someone must be  _really_  good at decor because it all looked fucking grand instead; in fact, the only visible mess here was that bellboy's slightly askew hat. He'll probably get fired later.

Stiles stared intently at a pair of angel statues, suspended gracefully in midair as though in an upwards, spiralling flight. Then he realized that perhaps ogling everything like a wide-eyed doe wasn't exactly bolstering his credibility, and also, his neck was beginning to cramp under the strain; so he lowered his head.

A polite face was staring intently into his.

"AH! . . .Ah, hello."

"How may I help you, sir?" came the woman's voice, cool and clear, and yet oddly evocative of elevators and subway announcements. Stiles's eyes drifted downwards, landing fleetingly on the silver tag fastened to her blouse. Sarah.

"I am here to visit a friend, actually; a Miss Anita Scherzinger?" For the life of him, Stiles could not understand his choice in using a English accent. He also could not explain the sudden urge to fiddle with his collar and say: "Double-O-Seven, Secret Service."

"Do you know her room number?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Could you please call her?"

"Regrettably enough, I do not have Miss Anita's number, nor her email for that matter. It's been years since I last saw her, you see, and I have only recently found out about her most fortuitous return."

Sarah frowned. "How did you get wind of her return, then?"

"She calle—oh, yeah... err. . . it was a big sort of wind?" Stiles trailed off lamely.

The concierge's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "My apologies, sir, but we are unable to disclose any information which infringes the privacy of our customers."

"But I came yesterday, and another concierge took me to her room!" Stiles was flailing now, his Bond impression long forgotten.

Sarah pursed her lips. "That is unlikely. Which employee was it?"

"Well, he was tall, built, brooding, and he had dark hair and a stubble. He was also certainly a lot nicer than  _you_ ," said Stiles.

"That will be Nathan, the newcomer. I shall have a word with him."

Crap. Stiles didn't really want to get anyone into trouble; the description was just a random collection of stupid adjectives which first came to mind. (Author's note: I wonder where from...)

The woman continued disdainfully. "Your statement, however, is inconsistent with your story. I should think that any person with even the most limited of observational insight would have been able to remember a simple 3-digit room number. On the other hand, I should also think that any person with even the most limited of observational foresight  _and_   _decency_  would have asked for the number of a long lost friend."

Stiles would have been insulted if he weren't so nervous; and he'd been nervous for quite some time now, actually.

"Do you ever worry about getting crushed when you're working here?"

Sarah stared at him blankly.

Stiles rushed, "I mean, look at those two angels up there. What if one day, the wire meshing snapped and they both landed on your head? Even if it doesn't fall  _directly_  on your head, what if the impact were so great, its shattered pieces flew everywhere like sharpnel? What if you got a concussion from being kicked in the head by an angelic foot? Does the workplace insurance cover that? And, if you went into a coma, does your boss get to pull the plug?"

Both heads turned up to stare, mesmerized, at the stone angels floating menacingly overhead.

Sarah pulled out her cellphone and began tapping away furiously. Uh oh.

"Look, I'll leave, just don't call secur—whoah!" Stiles yelped as the woman yanked the front of his shirt in a death grip.

"Come with me."

"Wait, what?" Stiles floundered, her unnatural strength propelling him forward.

_Towards the glass elevators._

The elevator buttons were of your typical "up" and "down" configuration, the pair symbolized with semiotic triangles in reflective rotations. From first glance, the flat buttons made it obvious to Stiles that they were probably sensitive enough to require nothing more than a light, gentle touch. There was nothing light nor gentle, however, about the way the concierge broke her nail as she plunged it furiously into the chrome.

Stiles's mouth gaped open in tune with the elevator doors.

"Get in," Sarah said as she walked hurriedly inside.

It took Stiles a moment's hesitation before he followed suit, his senses dulled by surreal, dreamlike disbelief. And like most dreams, spatial travel took little to no time at all, because Stiles swore that it was hardly a few seconds before he was standing before a penthouse door, 1010 engraved in golden wreaths.  _  
_

_Do not disturb._

"Miss Scherzinger should be inside," the concierge said.

Stiles waited patiently for the concierge to leave. She didn't.

"Shall I ring the doorbell for you?"

Stiles coughed politely. "Err. . . thanks a lot, but I can take it from here."

"Ah, that is fine, I suppose. Would you like anything else?"

"No, thank you."

"Alright then."

Stiles waited. She still doesn't budge.  _Right._

"What are you still doing here?"

"I. . . I would like to verify that you were telling the truth. Should Miss Scherzinger declare that you're not acquainted with her, I shall have to be here to escort you to the exit."

Stiles couldn't really see a way out of this so, trembling slightly, he rang the doorbell.

_Silence._

Phew, he hates to admit this, but he's almost relieved tha—

The double doors swung open, held wide apart by a pair of slender bronze arms; then Stiles rested his eyes upon the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Her ebony curls crashed like cascading waterfalls upon her delicate, toned shoulders, framing a face so . . . so  _perfect_ that it's like a work of art stolen from the gallery of heaven itself, then some tool decided that it wasn't perfect enough, so he  _airbrushed_ it.

The alpha's gorgeous almond eyes landed fixedly on Stiles, causing his heart to leap violently into his throat.

"My apologies for the disturbance, Miss Scherzinger, but this young man here claims to be an old friend of yours. Could you please verify this?" asked Sarah. Stiles felt relief surge through him as Anita switched her attention to the concierge.

Such respite was tragically short-lived, however, when the Indian goddess swiftly returned to pin him under questioning, penetrative eyes; and Stiles sweared that, for one fleeting instant, they were staring all the way through the very windows of his soul.

Anita's brow crinkled into a barely noticeable frown.

 _She's not going to go with it,_ Stiles thought in a panic.  _Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh cra—_

"Oh my God, Ted! It's been so long since I last saw you. How did you find out that I was in town?" cried Anita in joyful disbelief, her arms abandoning their hold on the doors to pull him into a tight hug.  _Mm. . . c_ _innamon._

The concierge was rooted to her spot, surprise etched across her face.  _Take that,_  Stiles thought,  _told you she's a friend._  Except she's not, really. More like a complete stranger he'd never even met before.

Also, she's the bloodthirsty alpha of the Alpha Pack, who could probably break every single bone in his body with one light squeeze.

Stiles was suddenly extraordinarily uncomfortable in her embrace.

"Thank you so much for bringing him here. Come on in, Teddy, we've got  _soo much_  to catch up on." And before Stiles even knew what was happening, he was being pulled forward, the doors behind him slamming pointedly in the concierge's disheartened face.

-(O.O)"/

* * *

-(O.O)"/

The first thing that captured Stiles's attention is the private swimming pool out on the balcony; the next was the realization that the place is a chrome white and incidentally, twice the size of his house; and the third was the collection of alphas draped languidly over colorful sofas, tearing their gaze away from the floor-to-ceiling plasma screen to stare at him like... like lunch has arrived.

*Gulp*

"Now, could you  _please_  tell me what all that was about?" came the gorgeous East Midlands vowels. How befitting of someone so beautiful and breathtaking and drop-dead gor-

Stiles was going to die today, he's  _sure_  of it.

"Well?" Anita prompted, tapping her fingers impatiently against her elbow.

Stiles struggled to regain the ability to speak, which was demonstrably more strenuous an effort than hiking through the anticyclonic storms of Jupiter, an endeavour complicated considerably by the fact that Jupiter doesn't have a solid surface.

"I. . . I want to join your pack," Stiles finally said in a rush; half-convinced that he was about to be savagely torn from limb to limb by a pack of ravenous wolves.

Anita just stared at him blankly; the tension in the room melting away as the other alphas returned their attention to the telly.

Right. Awkward. Did he get the wrong room? Are there two Anita Scherzingers? No, no; it's not possible for two angels so wonderful to exist together at the same tim-

"No," said Anita.

Stiles wasn't quite sure if they were on the same wavelength here. For all he knew, she could be talking about party packs. "No. . .?"

"No, you can't join our pack," Anita said kindly; there was an eruption of laughter from the alphas (or humans). Stiles turned around, just in time to see a Jonas Brother getting conked in the head by a high-definition coconut.

"And by pack we mean a pack of. . ."

"A pack of werewolves. Alpha werewolves, to be precise."

Gazing into the alpha's apologetic face, Stiles realizes in a daze that this really wasn't the way he expected things to go at all. None of his bones have been broken, his skin was still intact, he still has all four limbs. . . Really, he ought to have been slammed into the floor by now, or at  _least_  been sent cowering under a slew of violent interrogations and mortal threats.

Guess Derek's just a special case of sourwolf.

"Why not? If it's because I'm human, you can just give me the bite!" Stiles mimed clamping his teeth around an arm. "Well, not  _this_  arm, I think the scar would look cooler around my left arm, because you know, angles, aperture, lighting and all that. Is there a code for bite marks, like how an earring on the left lobe means someone's gay? Does that make me gay? Because I had this weirdest dream the other night about my chemistry teach—"

"What's your name?" Anita interrupted, somehow looking slightly less sweet. Is this actually her version of being irritated? Stiles felt sick to the stomach for actually managing to irk someone so lovely and wonderful.

"It's Stiles," he answered, diminished.

"Stiles, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but werewolves don't retain scars," Anita said, her tone curious. "It puzzles me how a human could not know about a werewolf's healing faculties, when he knows about the alpha pack—" She paused, as though struck by a sudden thought.

Stiles thinks she's the most beautiful thing to ever walk the earth; but she's pretty slow for an alpha.

Which was ironic because within the blink of an eye, he was being slammed back against the doors, her deceptively delicate fist lifting him up by the scruff of his shirt.

"How did you find us?" she gnashed, her eyes gleaming a deep shade of purple. Stiles gulped. "You're a human, you could  _never_  have caught our scent. Someone must have told you how to track us. A werewolf." She sniffs his neck.

"Whoa. . . Easy, tigress. Or wolfress. Or wolveress? What's the exact ter—"

"Hale," she snarled. At that revelation, the alphas around the tv turned to stare, their eyes gleaming menacingly in colours of every shade and hue. Uh oh.

Stiles completely forgot about Derek's scent. Guess he's pretty slow himself.

_Just go with it._

\\(O-O)!/

* * *

\\(O-O)!/

Yellow shifted to red with a languid smugness, and the Camaro slowed to a halt before the intersection; it was the tenth time it's passed through this stupid area, and it's also the tenth time it's been held up by that  _accursed_  traffic light.

Derek scowled, the two rows of crescents on the steering wheel the only indication of the worry gnawing away restlessly inside. He dug his nails into the leather, deeper this time, perhaps ruining it permanently; but right now, he simply couldn't care less. Stiles was deep in the enemy lines, risking his life, whilst  _he's_  here circling aimlessly around the hotel.

What if something happened to Stiles? He would never be able to forgive himself.  _Damn it!_  He needs to be there, to keep an eye out for him, to make sure he's all right, but they can't risk jeopardizing the plan by having the alphas catch his scent. With a frustrated growl, Derek slammed a fist into the dashboard.

He had almost told Stiles about his—his. . .  _feelings_. And now he wonders if it was the last chance he will ever have, and if Stiles will never kno—

 _Stupid thoughts._  He'll be okay. He's always okay.

Derek inhaled a long, deep breath, the remnants of Stiles's scent soothing his nerves. It was a dreamy scent, mixed with the remnants of peach shampoo and the slightest hint of aftersh. . . sh. . . shit.

_FUCK._

There was a chorus of screeching tires and irate honking when a black Chevy Camaro stole into the intersection, the red light hollering angrily in its wake.

/(O.0)"\

* * *

/(O.0)"\

"Talk," Anita shook him by his collar, snarling.

Stiles thought absently that even though she was sporting those deadly canines, she was still really pretty.

"You know, this is actually how I expected the day to turn out. Thrown against the most immediate solid surface, interrogated on threats of violence, abject terror, the like."

Anita jerked him forward, then slammed him back into the doors. Hard. Stiles winced.

"We don't do threats of violence, young man, we get straight to it," she snarled.

Stiles blinked.

"You know, technically that's untrue because I'm pretty sure that  _that_  counted as a threa—" Fangs and claws. "Okay, okay! Look, just calm down. Yes of course you smell Derek on me," Stiles paused, then declared tentatively, "it's only natural, after all, since I've been spending so much time with his pack."

There was a collective *chink* of claws popping out.

"Just hear me out before you eat me, okay?" Stiles whimpered, holding up his palms in placation.

"This had better be a convincing story, or I will rip you to ribbons."

"Right," Stiles said, the alpha's face far too close for comfort. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his forehead, and he found himself concentrating on that instead. "I'm a member of Derek's pack. Well, sort of. I wanted the bite, but he kept rejecting me because apparently, he didn't think I could handle it, like I'd die or something." Stiles rolled his eyes. "He's always been like that, you know, Derek? You try to talk some sense with him and he just goes wolf on you and you can't really say anything, because it's really scary and you're afraid he might kill you. I've always told him that it wasn't fair for him to use hi-"

"Get to the point!"

"Right. Which is fine, because I don't want his bite anymore."

"And why is that?" Anita asked, her expression clinical.

"Because he's weak, and he's a failure of an alpha. I want to be strong, and a werewolf is strong. But I want to be more than just strong; I want to be stronger than anyone else, including the other werewolves; I want to be stronger than the weaklings like Derek." Stiles felt his eyes flare in determination and disdain.

"And that's why, after Derek mentioned that the alpha pack is here, I came looking for you," Stiles said. "I want. . . to become an alpha."

Wow, he's on a roll. He should really look into acting as a career, because he's pretty damn good at it; it's just like he's channeling Meryl Streep. Or Mitt Romney.

"That's an. . . intriguing story." Anita seemed utterly convinced. Yay Stiles!

"So can I have the bite now?"

"No."

Perhaps that "yay" was a tad premature. No yay for Stiles.

"Do I need to do something? What do I have to do? Because I will do  _anything_  to get into your pack. I'll do the groceries, I'll do your laundry; hell, I'll even wash the dishes. Or do you alphas just eat stuff with your hands? Do you eat meat raw? I'm not so sure about that raw part because the last time I had sushi, I barfed into the soup bowl; then I covered it up and put it back on the conveyor belt and some old lady—whoah!" Stiles stumbled to the ground as Anita released his collar.

The alpha of alphas took a step back, the tension gone from her face; on the other hand, the rest of the pack probably need to take some of Stiles's Adderall, because most of them were out on the balcony playing water polo. "A very tempting offer, Stools ( _it's Stiles_ ), but I'm afraid not."

"Why not?" Stiles whined.

"Because you're too power-hungry. Now, if you'd be so kind as to let yourself outside—"

"What? But I thought you lot liked us power-hungry types because we're so easy to manipulate and corrupt!"

"We're alpha werewolves, not an episode of Buffy."

Stiles could not believe that this was happening. Damn his flawless acting. Damn Meryl Streep and Mitt Romney.

_Focus._

"Wait! Shouldn't you appreciate power more than anyone else? I mean, you're the alpha of an alpha pack, aren't you going to take advantage of this? A simple bite from you will give your pack another loyal member, and that in turn will make you stronger as wel—"

"Steels, you ne—I'm sorry,  _Stiles._  Forgive me, but it  _is_  a rather unusual name; I want to give you a piece of advice." Anita paused, frowning in concentration, as though summoning all the wisdom of her alpha ways. Stiles's eyes widened in anticipation.

"With great power comes great responsibility."

For a breathless moment; two faces, one solemn, one incredulous, stared intently at one another.

"But that's from  _Spiderman_!"

Anita looked genuinely surprised. "Is it really? I honestly can't quite remember, but I do recall it having struck me as being deeply profound. Regardless of its origins, it retains the essence of the advice I'm imparting to you. Power requires discipline and regulation, for it is nothing without control. After all, power is only as strong as those who wield it, and those who crave power for the sake of power itself are the most powerless of us all. Remember that, and you will truly be strong," she said sagely.

This is ridiculous. Stiles doesn't even really  _want_  to become a werewolf. Maybe he'll just tape this Spiderman lesson and give it to Derek.

" _Okay_ , so the  _real_  issue here isn't that I yearn for power, but your assumption that I will have no control over it, am I right?"

Anita frowned, deep in thought, and Stiles thought that it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen.

What was  _wrong_  with him?

Anita laced her fingers together. "I suppose that there is some startlingly subtle truth to that."

"Then let me  _prove_  to you that I have the control and means to harness the power of an alpha. Give me a mission, or a job, or a test;  _anything_  that you think will prove my control and loyalty to you." Stiles's voice was held by uncharacteristic resolve, and he could see the interest slowly stirring in the alpha's eyes.

"Now  _there's_  a thought..."

r(0-0)"

* * *

r(0-0)"

The glass doors flew open as an anxious man dashed hurriedly into the lobby, his panicking eyes wild and everywhere, scarcely taking in the the lavish extravagance so resplendent in the vast atrium.

_He can't find Stiles's scent._

No,  _no_! The fucking place had just been cleaned, the air heavy with the suffocating haze of soapy detergent. Derek's eyes landed frantically on the alcove of elevators to the far right. No, there are  _too many_  floors, he'll never find him in time. He needs to find someone who's seen the idiot before; one of those butler-people, perhaps, or a bellboy. It was only then when Derek noticed how many hotel staff there were, sprawled everywhere in a flowing mosaic of red and gold.  _Which one?_

A woman's bloodcurdling scream pierced his thoughts.

"I won't go out there, you can't make me!"

The concierge was clinging on to half an elevator door, slapping away hysterically at the outstretched arms of two concerned colleagues. She screamed some more, her words too overwrought by panic and delirium to make any sense, though Derek managed to catch a few choice expletives and jumbled epithets about how " _whales belong in the aquarium, not the fucking ceiling!_ ". The elevator's other metal door was trying desperately to close, but to no avail; bouncing off sorrowfully everytime it jammed into the woman's tremulous arse.

Derek didn't know what the hell was going on, but something about it just screamed: " _S_ _tiles was here._ " _ **  
**_

He pushed past the two uniformed butler-people, not hearing their exclamations of surprise and indignation. The concierge,  _Sarah_ , looked up from her door, bewilderment etched across her tear-stained face. "Wha-"

"A teenager, short brown hair, tea-green eyes, flails when he talks, cute as a button - do you know where he went?"

"Teddy?"

Derek didn't know much about stuffed animals, and he was also fairly certain that this woman was insane - but he could see the recognition dawning in her eyes. That, and the traces of Stiles's scent left on her hand were enough for him to tear her from the elevator door and push her inside. Her butler-people friends cried in protest, but Derek had ears for no one but the dazed, if oddly relieved figure before him.

"Where did he go?" He asked again, impatience sending him dangerously close to the edge. Sarah cowered in fear.

"1010—" she whimpered, and Derek struck the button like lightning. "—Tenth floor. Met long lost Indian friend who has big wind."

That's it; this woman is officially  _crazy_.

Derek glared impatiently at the digital screen, silently roaring at 3 to get a fucking move on and turn into 4. Damn stupid hotels and their glass elevators. He was in no mood to admire the dolphin statuettes swimming playfully in thin air, nor does he appreciate how the replica of Saturn and its moons brushed ever so slightly against the elevator, jiggling the rest of the planets into orbit. He glanced back at the screen.  _5._

_Hurry up!_

"Not the angels. Fucking angels. I should have went into insurance like Kelly. Fuck the angels."

Derek whipped around to tell the concierge to shut up, when something caught his eye.

The neighbouring elevator was carrying a janitor, his trolley of cleaning supplies and dirty mops taking up most of the elevator's space. In fact, there was so little room that its only other occupant was squished up against the side, his face pressed up against the glass like a trapped gold fish.

Stiles's eyes widened in disbelief when he saw Derek, his pupils tracing the alpha's progress upwards even as his own elevator moved inexorably away.

"Fucking angels," came Sarah's weak voice.

_Indeed._

There was a loud crash as Derek banged his head into the elevator doors.

~TBC~

* * *

~TBC~

1) About the hotel. I went to Singapore's Marina Bay Sands once, and the amount of art and class there was just mindblowing (7 stars!). You should definitely google some images. (I had a Japanese concierge friend who worked there, whose name is, believe it or not, Marina! She's also the most amazing person ever, but I digress.)

2) More apologies incoming. I know it's all a little bit crackish; sorry, but I rather like it this way. I hate depressing stuff, and you may be glad to know that while Sarah never overcomes her anxiety and paranoia; she eventually quits her job, goes into insurance, and curiously enough loves it a lot more than the service industry.

3) Be patient, Sterek  _will_  come!


	3. Cowgirls Don't Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her angry chant was interrupted by a rustling thud as Dora's face tumbled from its perch; the red frisbee spinning madly on the ground before slowing to a deathly halt by Derek's boots.
> 
> All three toddlers screamed in horrified unison. And, to be perfectly honest, Stiles felt like joining in.
> 
> Because that face behind the frisbee? Was not a happy face.

_CHAPTER 3: Cowgirls Don't Cry_

* * *

_CHAPTER 3: Cowgirls Don't Cry_

A bright red frisbee soared through the air, the Dora the Explorer cartoon on its surface a dizzying blur. The frisbee's path was constant, its flight unfaltering—and yet one could see the slight,  _so very slight_ wobble in its edge, as though it strived to be more, to fly as freely and gracefully as the bluebirds singing above.

An outstretched hand, a laugh, and the children sent it soaring once again, over their cheering faces, over the apple trees; and over the azure lake sparkling like an incandescent sapphire — defiantly sending its own rays of magnificent blue fire back at the sun, challenging its supremacy, its  _sovereignty_  over everything touched by its light.

And in the pond was a tree.

A single maple leaf, hastily painted with careless strokes of red and gold, broke away from its ripened tether under a puff of wind. It trailed slowly downwards, its path uncertain, before finally landing with a decisive ripple, shattering the tree into a million shambolic fragments of molten sapphire glass.

Stiles was leaning against the gnarled trunk of the old maple, his arms folded across his chest, bracing himself against the gusts of chill autumn wind sending the golden-red stars swirling capriciously about his feet. His eyes were staring determinedly away into the distance, his shoulders rigid in stoic insouciance; a baffling paradox which unsettled the alpha still getting out of the car.

_Here we go._

Derek slammed the car door, his discomfort manifest proportional to the force applied and decibels amplified; a discomfort not lessened by the eyes burning into his, nor by the heart-stopping realization that he found said eyes, despite the obviously seething anger—unbearably attractive.

"Really, Derek? What kind of impetus, what kind of phantom, could have  _possessed_  you to go there." Stiles yelled, the anger simmering throughout the ride finally bubbling to the surface in a heated, breathless frenzy. "They're going to catch your scent, and they're going to realize this was all a  _fucking_  hoax, and then they're going to  _come_  for us and my dad will lose his  _job_. Is that what you want? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you  _crazy_? Are you an  _idiot_? Were you born without any  _sense_  at all? "

Each word was a dizzying punch, pounding Derek deeper, and deeper into the earth; leaving him dazed and light-headed and scant for breath. He would have ripped out the throat of anyone else who dared to douse him in such vitriol—but this wasn't anyone else, this was  _Stiles;_  this was  _Stiles_  who was angry with him, this was  _Stiles_  whom he has disappointed, this was  _Stiles_  who was glaring at him like he was the last thing on Earth that he wanted to see; and all Derek could think about right now was how long it would take for the earth to finally,  _finally_  swallow him up, where he can hide away from this caustic diatribe in the soil's cold, infinite blackness, perhaps forever.

This, of course, was how Derek felt, and what he feels—be it the overwhelming urge to curl into a fetal position and suck diligently on his thumb—is derisively irrelevant.

Derek growled, a primal, guttural sound jarring in stark contrast with the whimper within. "They won't catch my scent, the whole place is scrubbed every two minutes."

Stiles was supremely unimpressed.

"Oh please, Derek, get your head out of your ass. You never even touched me and it took Anita about five  _seconds_  to make out your scent. Where were you when the Wizard was handing out brains—fucking around with Dorothy? . . .Or with  _Toto_? Tell me, Derek, what was it like, being pounded up the ass by a one-foot-tall Terrier?" Stiles's voice was staccato, like a machine-gun.

Derek felt his hurt swiftly molt to anger. He made a mistake, fine. But does Stiles have to be such a fucking jerk?

"It doesn't matter," Derek gritted through his teeth, struggling to suppress his anger; a woman had stopped mid-jog to stare curiously at Stiles's acidic tirade. Derek glared at her—and shrugging, she left in no apparent hurry, jogging down the path to the steady rhythm of Gangnam Style.

"It doesn't matter? Are you fucking ki—"

"It doesn't matter," Derek repeated irritably, then continued before the outraged teen could interrupt, "because Sarah already placed out-of-order signs in front of every elevator on the tenth floor—then she told the team to scrub the lobby and all the elevators. In exchange, I carried her out of the building."

"You carried her out? Why would she want that?" Stiles asked in disbelief, feeling an unpleasant twinge in his stomach at the thought of the woman huddled safely in Derek's arms. Then his face twisted in horror. "Did you set a fire? Of my God, you set a  _fire?_  You're going to kill everyone just because the alphas are staying there? I _knew_  I heard a fire engine, you son o—"

"Stiles, shut up!" Derek snapped, and the teen complied, his lips sealing shut like a ziplock bag. "I did  _not_  set a fire. There wouldn't have been much point in removing all traces of my scent if I was just going to burn the whole place down anyway. And believe it or not, it  _does_  remove my scent."

"Arson?" Stiles asked in confusion.

Derek rolled his eyes. "Sanitation. It's why I had to find Sarah in the first place. I couldn't find your scent through all the soap."

Stiles's breathing was growing more regular, his heartbeat normalizing to a steadier rhythm; and Derek relaxed.

"You're a hundred percent sure?"

Derek sighed. "Yes, Stiles."

Stiles wrapped his arms around his chest to brace against another cold gust of wind; the maple branches waving lazy farewells in its wake, showering a soft flutter of crimson leaves upon the two awkward figures sheltered below.

"So. . . why did you go back?" Stiles finally asked, his tone tentative.

The park was suddenly awfully quiet, the children across the lake nowhere to be seen.

Derek wasn't quite sure what to say."I thought that there might have been some. . . issues."

Stiles curled his bottom lip; then puffed, sending a leaf toppling off his head. "Issues? Why would you think that? Because you thought I'd screw up? I find your lack of faith in me to be really insulting, Derek. And by the way, there  _were_  issues. Are you psychic?" Stiles spread his arms, then continued sarcastically. "Because congratulations, you've finally got your first sense!"

Perhaps it was the crumbling bark, or Stiles's excessive flailing, or both; because before he even knew what was happening, he was sliding off the trunk and falling backwards into the lake. As he braced himself for the icy shock, Stiles wondered fleetingly if he's finally managed to annoy even mother nature herself.

_Well, Crap._

A strong arm wrapped itself around his waist, spinning him swiftly away from the water; the world around him a dizzying panorama. Stiles stared up in a daze, struggling to register the rapid chain of events; to no avail, Derek's eyes far too distracting a phenomenon for any form of coherent thought.

"Because I was worried," Derek answered quietly.

It was almost as though time had slowed down to a breathless halt, the two figures by the lake frozen together deathly still; the only sign of life the golden leaves cascading around them in silent, ghostly whispers.

Derek felt his heart leap to his throat; he coughed, apprehension flashing through his eyes.  _It's now or never_. "Stiles, I need to tell—"

It was finally here; soaring so gloriously, so  _magnificently_  through the hastily parting wind, towards transcendence, towards impossible  _ecstasy._  To soar and strive to reach the clouds, the heavens, the stars; and mayhap the wondrous dreams which lay infinitely beyond!

There was a crimson blur; Derek's pupils crossing together for a split-second before Dora the Explorer hit him flat in the face. And it stuck there, its now masked victim firing off a string of violent curses as he stumbled blindly backwards, a blasphemy against the happily smiling little Latina girl now so affectionately tacked on to his face.

Stiles yelped in surprise as the hands beneath him vanished; then he yelped again, this time in pain, crashing unceremoniously to the ground.

A little blonde head poked around from behind an old oak.

"Hello, mister!" She beamed happily at Stiles, who was still wincing from his fall. "Did you see our frish-bee? It—"

The girl stopped abruptly, her eyes widening in disbelief at the sight of the dazed man slumped against his car.

"Dora is alive!" She squealed in excitement. "Smithie! Amanda! Come quick, I found Dora!"

Stiles stared bewilderedly at the three children before him, their wide eyes starry with wonder. He turned around, following their line of sight in confusion; then burst out laughing.

"Dora! Why are you so tall? Did you growh up?" asked the little boy, who was probably Smithie; though with the way gender-specific names are being thrown around these days, it was entirely plausible that he was Amanda.

"Dora! Dora! Where's Boots? Are you on an adventh-ture? Is that why you are wearing a black jah-cket?"

"Dora's not on an adventure, Amanda, she doesn't have Backpack. She'll get lost without Map," reasoned the first girl sagely.

"Maybe she is lost! Dora, did Swiper steal Backpack? We'll help you find it!" said Smithie, his sweet little face brave with determination, and Stiles barely stifled a giggle. He really ought to say something, but he'd rather not.

The children chattered in excitement as "Dora" straightened, his arms falling rigidly to his sides.

Amanda huffed. "That Swiper is such a meanie, alwayth stealing things from Dora."

"Yeah! Swiper always swipey Dora's things" nodded Smithie in agreement.

"Why are you alwayth so nice and sympathetic (huh, big word) to Swiper?" asked the blonde girl, oblivious to "Dora"'s clenching fists. "He's alwayth so mean to you, but youh always forgive him. Why are you so magh-nanimous? (Okay, seriously? The kid's  _five._ ) Do youh like him? Why don't youh just tell him?" (Author's note:  _Oooooh_ )

All three curious,  _adorable_  little faces turned to beam expectantly at the man with a frisbee on his face.

Stiles was giggling hysterically now; oh God, this is just fucking  _gold_.

"Dora? Why are youh so quiet?" asked the blonde, unnamed girl, planting her hands on her hips bossily. "Mummy sayth it's really rude to ignore people when they're talking to you."

"Dora" remained dangerously silent.

"Helloooo, Dora? Why are youh so quiet!" No-Name cried, stomping to a halt before "Dora", a towering contrast which only emphasized how  _tiny_  and  _adorable_  she was.

"Dora, talk!" she whined, punctuating each word with a poke on Derek's thigh. "Dora, talk! . . .Talk! Talk! Talk! Talk! Talk! Talk!"

Her angry chant was interrupted by a rustling thud as Dora's face tumbled from its perch; the red frisbee spinning madly on the ground before slowing to a deathly halt by Derek's boots.

All three toddlers screamed in horrified unison. And, to be perfectly honest, Stiles felt like joining in.

Because that face behind the frisbee? Was  _not_  a happy face.

"You  _ate_  Dora's head!" screamed Amanda, her eyes bulging out of her head in unadulterated terror.

"Eeeek! Dora's dead!  _Dora's dead!_ " Smithie wailed.

No-name stared bewilderedly at Dora's face smiling happily next to Derek's feet, her eyes widening in recognition. "Hey, I found my frish-bee!"

There was a happy cheer as the toddlers cried " _Hooray!_ "

Stiles thought idly that these kids were going to have a very hard time ahead of them in life.

No-Name bent over, her tiny little hand reaching for the frisbee; grasping empty air. She looked up with wide eyes, only to see the tall man carefully examining the toy, his face painfully expressionless.

"Mister... can we have our frish-bee back?" No-Name asked tentatively, her little arms outstretched, straining for the frisbee.

Derek didn't seem to hear her, his attention reserved for nothing but the red...  _thing_  in his hands.

"Mister...?"

"What is your name?" Derek smiled down at her, his face kind. The girl relaxed visibly.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have Stiles gaping incredulously at Derek, his mind completely blown.

"Elizabeth, but ehveryone calls me Elly," she answered.

"Well, Elly, you want your frisbee back, don't you?"

"Yesh! So can I have my frish-bee back now? We wants to play with it."

"What do you say when you want something, Elly?" Derek asked.

Elly's eyes widened in understanding. "Can I pwease have my frish-bee back, pwease?"

Derek looked at her kindly; and like lightning, snapped the thing in half.

He spread his palms, allowing the pieces to tumble mournfully into her hands. She looked up to gaze at the man's once again expressionless face, her mouth gaping open in a tiny little "o".

Elly burst into tears, her body racking with each tremulous sob.

Smithie was the first to speak, his voice trembling, "You broke our frish-bee!"

"You big fat meanie!" cried Amanda, stamping her feet, her own eyes beginning to grow puffy and red.

Derek snarled, causing all three children to burst into caterwauling tears.

"Derek, what is  _wrong_  with you?" Stiles barked at him in anger. Derek scowled.

"They threw that abominable thing into my f—"

"They're kids, Derek, they're five year-old  _kids_." Now it was Stiles's turn to scowl, and Derek felt his face falter; his wolf whimpering inside.

"B-But—"

"You just made these sweet little kids cry because of a  _frisbee_? Really? A  _frisbee_? What are you, Derek? A  _kindergartner_?"

"But they—" Derek said hurriedly, the rest of the sentence drowned out by another piercing wail from Elly.

Stiles shook his head, then walked over to the girl, her shoulders trembling with each muffled little sob. She slowly looked up at the teen, who was smiling down at her reassuringly.

"Elly, don't cry. We'll buy you another frisbee, okay?" Stiles grinned in encouragement.

Elly sniffles. "No! My daddy gave me the frish-bee as a goodbye present before he went to Florida. I don't want another frish-bee. I want daddy's frish-bee." She looked down at the pieces lying morosely in her hands, then burst into tears.

Stiles shot Derek a menacing glare. The alpha raised his hands before his chest defensively, his bewildered face protesting:  _how was I supposed to know?_

"Elly, when will your daddy come back? Maybe he could buy you another frisbee," Stiles said kindly.

She wiped her tear-stained face. "He's not coming back. He left Elly and mummy so he can live with Fucking Whore." Stiles blanched, but she continued on relentlessly. "I hate Fucking Whore, she stole daddy from me. I hate her!"

She glared at Derek. "Now big fat meanie broke daddy's frish-bee. I hate him too! I hate him I hate him I hate him I  _hate_   _him_!" She cried, her tiny fists landing a series of ineffectual blows against Derek's thigh.

Derek chewed nervously on his bottom lip, not quite daring to meet Stiles's eyes.

_Maybe he could just sneak a pee—_

*gulp*

Stiles snarled. "Derek,  _fix this._ "

"What am I supposed to do? Staple it back together?"

Stiles fixed Derek with a cold stare. "If you don't do something, there are a couple of things of yours that  _are_  getting stapled together."

Flustered, Derek knelt to the ground, his face leveling with the girl's. "Elly, I'm sorry I broke your frisbee. Could you please find it in your pretty little heart to forgive me?" he said, flashing a toothy grin.

His seductive charms obviously did not work on five year-olds, because Elly let out a terrified little squeak before scrambling back to hide behind her friends.

Derek was just a  _teensy_  bit offended.

"Stiles, let's just go. We can buy a new frisbee for them at the toy store if you really wanted to."

"But I don't want a new frish-bee!" interrupted Elly. her eyes tearing up again. "I want daddy's frish-bee!"

"Give Elly back her daddy's frish-bee, you meanie!" cried Amanda.

Smithie joined in. "Yeah! My daddy says Jews are meanies! You must be a Jew!"

Derek stared at Smithie incredulously. Sighing, Stiles took over.

"Smithie, Jews are not meanies; remember that. Nevertheless, this man here," Stiles pointed at Derek, not bothering to look at him. "while not a Jew, is  _definitely_  a meanie."

The children nodded fervently in agreement. " _Yes_ , he is a meanie!" they chirped.

Derek rolled his eyes.

Stiles ignored him. "But Mister Meanie here is very very sorry, and he wants to apologize to all of you _—especially_ Elly _—_ for breaking your frisbee."

The children turned to stare at the ex-Dora, who nodded briefly in agreement.

"And he would  _also_ like to apologize for the emotional trauma his face has caused to Elly."

Derek rolled his eyes, but nodded nevertheless.

"So, to compensate for the all the awful things he's done, Mister Meanie will now give all of you  _horsey rides_!" Stiles hoorayed.

Derek nodded. Then blanched.

_"What?"_

Stiles shrugged indifferently, ignoring Derek's look of pure terror as the cheering children crowded excitedly around his feet, tugging insistently at the hem of his shirt in a busy chatter.

"Stiles, I am  _not_  giving these brats  _horsey rides_ ," Derek hissed through his teeth.

It was like Stiles couldn't even hear him. He tapped away at something on his phone, set it on the ground, then settled down next to it; sending down a trickle of golden-red as his back nestled lazily against the warped maple bark.

Derek's eyes widened as the twangy chords of country music started wafting from the phone; a jarringly unapologetic rustic melody with complete disregard for the  _ridiculousness_  of the situation. He glared at Stiles, who flashed him a quick grin before pulling his hood over his head—and started  _snoozing_  away.

_Her daddy gave her, her first pony  
Then taught her to ride._

You have gotta be _kidding me._

Sighing in defeated acceptance, Derek grabbed Elly by her collar and lifted her up onto his back, tucking her feet securely under his arms.

 _She climbed high in that saddle_  
_Fell I don't know how many times_  
 _Taught her a lesson that she learned_  
 _Maybe a little too well._

He took a few awkward steps forward, crunching twigs and dry leaves underfoot. Little hands tightened fearfully around his neck, clinging on for dear life, the fall promising pain; something she already knew far too well for someone far too young. He felt a sniffle tremble against the back of his head, and he tentatively increased his pace.

 _Cowgirls don't cry_  
_Ride, baby, ride_  
 _Lessons of life are going to show you in time_  
 _Soon enough you're gonna know why._

Every step grew steadily more confident, more rapid; every new movement jostling the girl harder and harder in her seat. She didn't seem to care.

 _Cowgirls don't cry_  
_Ride, baby, ride_  
_It's gonna hurt every now and then_  
_If you fall get back on again_  
_Cowgirls don't cry._

He was running now, the weight on their backs fading away into the violently rushing wind. The body pressed against his own trembled, but not from fear nor sadness—Elly was laughing happily away, the dangerous speed sending the wind flying through her hair, and a shivering thrill soaring through her bones. She alternated between screaming and laughing whenever Derek scaled a grassy knoll; leapt over a buttress root; ducked under a low-hanging branch; or veered so very dangerously close to the lake, threatening to send them both careening over the edge and into the sparkling waters below.

Then, his eyes squinting in the sun, Derek realized that Elly's not the only one who was laughing and screaming so very  _madly_  away.

 _'cause Cowgirls don't cry_  
_Ride, baby, ride_  
 _Lessons of life are goinna' show you in time_  
 _Soon enough your gonna know why_  
 _It's gonna hurt every now and then_  
 _If you fall get back on again_  
 _Cowgirls don't cry._

Stiles peeked lazily at the two from under his hood; and smothered a grin.

((-.o))

* * *

((-.o))

"So, you had fun."

Derek was lying on the ground, his chest heaving up and down with every ragged breath. Three smaller figures lay about him, giggling madly away, the adrenaline from the  _madness_  not quite yet entirely faded. He blinked at the face staring down at him, a sardonic smile playing upon its lips.

"Y-yeah," Derek grinned stupidly.

Stiles blinked, then pursed his lips, as though distracted by something. He shook his head, then continued. "When you finally feel like getting your ass off the ground, which is hopefully before future generations judge our race based on the discovery of the fossilized butt-prints here— _but no rush_ —I'll be waiting in the car."

"W-wait, I'm coming." Derek propped himself up with his hands.

"Mister Meanie, pwease don't go," Elly said, pouting.

"Yeah, Mister Meanie, stay!"

Smithie piped in. "We can throw glass boh-ttles at Jews!"

Stiles was pretty sure that he was going to see the kid's name on the news someday.

Derek smoothed down his jacket, and smiled kindly at the three hopeful little faces. "Sorry guys, but I can't play anymore today. I'll be back again, I promise."

Stiles rolled his eyes. " _If_  the cops don't lock you up for suspected paedophilia."

Derek ignored that. He turned to leave, then stopped; looking down to see Elly hugging his jean-clad leg like blonde limpet.

"Don't go! Pwease don't go!" she stared up at him, her rapidly tearing eyes threatening to spill hotly over her burning cheeks. She squeezed his leg even tighter. "I don't want you to leave Elly like daddy!"

Derek felt his heart clench.

"Elly, you'll be alright." Derek smiled. "You're a cowgirl, remember? You can do  _anything_."

Elly sniffled as she rubbed her eye, but managed to force out a little smile. "Then are you a cowboy?"

Derek frowned a little, as though deep in thought.

"Yes, I'm a cowboy. And the next time we meet, I'll give my little cowgirl even more horsie rides, okay?"

The cowgirl blinked away a few tears, then nodded, her tear-stained face beaming happily.

"Okay."

Stiles was a bit unnerved by the exchange. "Elly, do you have a facebook account?"

Elly nodded. "Yes! Elly made one to see if Fucking Whore was ugly like mummy said, but there was only a picture of a man in a dress."

"Right. Well, what's your account name?" asked Stiles. Derek stared at him in confusion.

"Elly Lizzy Cooper."

"Okay, good. See you, Elly," Stiles said, then slammed the car door in her face.

Elly stared at Derek in confusion.

"Mister Meanie, your friend is very weird."

"Yeah. . . yeah. That he is," Derek agreed, a smile tugging at his lips.

There was a honk from the car, and after one last hug for Elly and effusive farewells for the other two, the Camaro drove slowly away; little hands waving them off cheerfully in the rear-view mirror.

Stiles clicked his tongue.

"Alright, Big Bird, I'm not really all that into vegan food, or whatever it is you weirdos eat; so it'll be nice if you'll just take the next turn out of Sesame Street and get me to Applebee's stat."

"Applebee's?"

"Yeah, it's two hours past lunch and I still haven't had a single bite. In fact, on several distinct occasions, I actually came very close to regurgitating my breakfast; a notable feat considering that it's probably residing somewhere in my lower intestines."

Derek sighed, but toggled the GPS anyway.

Satisfied, Stiles continued. "Then, over lunch—for which you will be of course be paying—we'll talk about the Gleipnir."

Derek turned around to stare at Stiles in surprise.

"What about the Gle—"

"TRUCK! TRUCK! GAS TANK! EYES ON THE ROAD YOU CRAZY WOLF!"

The tyres screeched a ghostly wail as the Camaro veered hastily to the side, narrowly avoiding a fiery death in 7000 gallons of explosive gas. The Camaro did, however, get a consolatory fiery middle finger from the truck driver.

Stiles exhaled sharply; it wasn't his last breath after all. For a moment there, he actually thought that he felt Death himself clasping his arm in a vicelike grip and—

Oh.  _Oh_.

"Err. . . Derek? Why are you holding my hand?"

~TBC~

* * *

~TBC~

1) I'm super sorry for the slightly late chapter, but in the future, I shall try to update this story at least once per week.

2) Also, I get the feeling that this chapter was really subpar (was a bit rushed). I will brush it up next time.


	4. Revolting Kimchis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sneakered footsteps echoed across bathroom tiles—springs creaking as the doorknob turned—and Derek did the only rational thing that one could possibly do in such dire situations of impending criminal discovery.
> 
> There was a scuffle as Derek hid under the table.

_CHAPTER 4: Revolting Kimchis_

* * *

_CHAPTER 4: Revolting Kimchis_

The restaurant was just as bustling and busy as ever, despite the fact that most of their customers had already left with lunch warming their bellies. Perhaps the semblance of activity was wholly derived from the group of frat boys in the corner booth, the waiters and waitresses rushing over every few seconds to politely ask—barely audible over the ruckus—for them to shut the fuck up; or at least, that's what Derek  _thinks_  that they should say.

Derek was staring studiously at his menu—the warm lights splotching the page with puddles of bright yellow—and trying his very best to ignore the teen lounging so casually in the opposite end of the booth. Derek shook his head;  _focus_. There are double-glazed baby back ribs, roasted garlic sirloin, sizzling bourbon street steak. . .

_He had withdrawn his hand like it was burnt, the fire singing his face in a red flush. Stiles was staring at him in disbelief, or disgust; he didn't linger long enough to be sure._

Stiles yawned, stretching back against his seat as he flipped a laminated page, his eyes scanning the items in lazy fashion. Derek peeped at him over an unrealistic photoshop of Parmesan Sirloin, hastily ducking back behind the menu as Stiles's eyes flicked suspiciously in his direction. Grilled jalapeño-lime shrimp, blackened tilapia, lemon shrimp fettucine. . .

_He took a wrong turn for the third time in a row, far too distracted to think straight—and he was pretty sure that the cool female voice from the GPS had just called him a dumbass. Stiles's eyes were burning into the side of his face, sending a shiver down his spine—but he kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead. Derek gasped, his collar suddenly far too warm; and far too tight, constricting his throat._

"So, what are you getting?"

Derek's head jerked upwards. "Green Bean Crispers!"

The look that Stiles gave him was one of—quite frankly—disgust.

" _Green Bean Crispers?_ " Stiles repeated slowly, his face incredulous.

To be perfectly honest, Derek was distracted; he would have read out "Green Bean Crispers" even if Stiles had asked him about the state of political turmoil in southern Thailand.

"Y-yeah. . . But maybe I'll just get a—"

A shadow loomed over the table.

"Hi, I'm Christy, and welcome to Applebee's! I'll be your waitress for today, so may I take your order please?" The girl's voice was cheerful and upbeat, a testament to the dimpling smile plastered across her face, crinkling the skin underneath her baby blue eyes. Her blonde curls were like a silken waterfall of gold, crashing onto her shoulders in rolling waves; and brushing against the start of what Derek could see was a  _very_  generous bosom.

_Bitch._

Stiles was gaping at her—at  _them—_ in barely concealed admiration. Derek grinded his teeth.

_Jerk._

"Hmm. . ." Stiles flicked a dismissive glance at the menu, then returned to face the woman, a charming smile playing upon his lips. "I'm not really sure. In fact, I've never even  _been_  to an Applebee's my entire life." Stiles lied smoothly. "Anything you can recommend?"

There were a number of things that Derek could recommend; and most of them involved a hatchet.

Christy stood half akimbo, tapping her pen against her cheek in thoughtful consideration. "Well, most of our customers order the sizzling dishes for lunch, and they're delicious enough—but here's a secret; I know for a  _fact_  that that our chef Mr. Aries makes a pretty mean burger, and even though he's normally in charge of seafood, I  _could_  get him to make an exception if you want—since you're a new customer."

"Wow, pretty  _and_  kind," Stiles grinned; Derek's right eyebrow gave an involuntary twitch.

_Hatchets. Machetes. Chainsaws. Grenades. Machine guns. Lasers. Torpedoes. Hydrogen bombs._

Christy blinked, then laughed. "Aww, you're sweet. Well, if you're going for the burger, there's the Philly burger, the Quesadilla burger, the Cowboy burger, the Bacon Cheddar Burger, the Bourbo—"

Stiles's eyes were shining like little stars as he interrupted. "The Bacon Cheddar Burger?"

"Yup," affirmed Christy, popping the "p". "It's basically a normal beef burger with lettuce and tomatoes, but it also comes with thick-cut strips of bacon crusted together in salty melted cheddar cheese."

"That. Definitely that," Stiles said in a dazed wonder.

"Alrighty," Christy said cheerfully, ticking away at something on her clipboard. She turned to smile at Derek. "What about you, sir? You've been really quiet, haven't you?"

Derek didn't smile back. "A Sizzl—"

"Oh, he'll have the Green Bean Crispers," interrupted Stiles helpfully.

Christy looked at Derek interestedly. "Oh, so you're vegetarian?"

Derek fixed her with a scornful scowl, far too scandalized for a coherent response.

"Don't mind him, he's in a bad mood."

"I am  _not_  in a bad mood," said Derek calmly.

Which was true to some extent; it was rather hard to use imaginary weapons of mass destruction on Stiles when he was already a smouldering pile of blackened soot.

"Okay! One hot Bacon Cheddar Burger with a steaming side of fries," Christy pronounced with a smile, tapping her list with her pen. "And a healthy plate of yummy Green Bean Crispers; coming right up!"

"No! I don't want  _Green Bean—"_ Derek started derisively, but Christy doesn't hear him.

"Sir! Please put down that bottle of hot chili. It is  _not_  applicable face lotion!" Christy exclaimed as she hurried over to the corner booth _—_ which erupts into a chorus of raucous laughter. Derek felt an overwhelming urge to bang his head into the table.

 _Later._   _He'll do it later._

Stiles pressed his index finger onto the menu, an axis absently rotating it on the table as he said, "so, the Gleipnir?"

"Why, and what do you want to know?" Derek asked, sobering.

"It's my task."

"What?"

"Anita wants me to make a Gleipnir, because apparently, 'it's a task no normal person is supposed to be able to do'. She says it requires self-control, concentration, discipline, and kindness—so it's obviously right up my alley." There was no hint of irony in Stiles's voice.

"You have to do this to join the pack?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Obviously; get your head out of your ass, Derek."

"Do you even know what a Gleipnir is?"

"Not really, no."

Derek sighed. "It's a kind of chain that was used to bind Fenrir, a monstrous wolf fathered by Loki in Norse mythology."

"What? Why would Anita want a Gleipnir?"

"How am _I_  supposed to know?"

Stiles scratched his forehead. "Well, never mind that now. How do you make one?"

"I don't know."

Stiles crossed his arms, shooting Derek a withering look. "You're useless, you know that?  _Useless._ "

Derek scowled. "Why don't you just use that fancy phone of yours and search the fucking internet?"

Stiles stared at Derek blankly.

"I guess I hadn't thought of that," admitted Stiles, eliciting a scowl from the alpha. He pulled out his phone and tapped away on it for a spell; then stopped, his eyes widening in confusion.

"What is it?" Derek asked, his face curious.

"There's. . . nothing on Google." Stiles said slowly, his grip tightening on the slender cell. "The almighty Google hath fallen," he said in staggered awe, "what's going to happen next, fire-breathing dragons attack the capital? The kimchis rise up to revolt against their Korean oppressors? The vegans finally go mad and go on shooting sprees in food courts? Fire-breathing Korean kimchis attack the capital's food courts and the vegans save the world by eating them and are as such pardoned from their shooting sprees in the food courts outside the capi—"

"Stiles, stop!" Derek said sharply, interrupting the teen's breathless babble. "We'll just go to the library later, okay? It's how  _I_  got by all these years."

Stiles blinked, his eyes refocusing—it was as though he was in a far away place, a labyrinth of endless corridors, the walls a constantly shifting phantasmagoria of wayward conjectures and vivid imagination—and he was now struggling to navigate through that colourful, distracting maze back to solid ground; and back to present reality.

"Yeah, we'll do that," he said finally.

There was a light plink as Christy set down the laden dishes between them.

"There you go." Christy smiled cheerfully. "Enjoy!"

Stiles ogled the platter, his mouth hanging open in a gormless leer—and Derek understood, perhaps far too well; his superhuman nose was already picking out titillatingly ambrosial scents which would have made any lesser man go mad with unbridled ecstasy.

Stiles didn't say anything as Christy left—words far too lengthy a barrier between him; and the  _heaven_  beckoning so invitingly, so _tantalizingly_  away—then he dove in; his jaws working slowly as he savoured the first taste of food he's had in nigh on ten hours—and boy, such food,  _such glorious_   _food indeed_. The sesame-dusted buns were mellow and pillow-soft, melting away easily in his mouth, granting much-celebrated passage to beef so juicy, so flavourful, so  _beautiful;_  that it was probably what it would taste like if someone had killed an angel and sent it through the meat-grinder—and the cheese bacon. Oh, the cheese bacon. There was no word that could sufficiently describe the magic that was the cheese bacon. Stiles wanted to build a shrine and just sing hymns to it all day, or dress it in a tuxedo and take it out to a romantic candlelit dinner—where they will talk and laugh and Stiles will woo it with a guitar over even  _more_  wonderful burgers with this cheese bacon. Stiles moaned happily, the blissful sound of a person who has satisfied every heavenly want, every earthly desire; and has finally achieved the perennial state of nirvana.

Derek stared sadly at the pile of Green Bean Crispers laden before him. He took a little whiff, winced, then slowly nudged it away.

"Oh my God, I love this burger so much that I want to dress it in a tuxedo, take it out to a romantic candlelit dinner, and just talk and laugh and maybe woo it with a guitar over even more awesome burgers like this," Stiles said happily through a mouthful of aforesaid awesome burger. He paused, staring curiously at Derek's untouched plate. "Why aren't you eating?"

If there were a way to cause suffering to a pile of blackened soot, Derek would very much like to know how.

"I'm not hungry," Derek lied through his teeth, a lie challenged querulously by the low rumble from his errant stomach—the mournful whine of an organ that has tasted neither smidgen nor morsel of food save the roadside taco from last night; and even then, it was far too meagre a meal to sate the gas-guzzler appetite of an energetic alpha.

"Huh, that's a waste; but you're paying so. . ." Stiles shrugged indifferently. "Your loss."

He took another bite, the burger vanishing rapidly under his gluttonous attack—the brutal ravaging of a man who has not eaten for weeks. It therefore came as a surprise when Stiles set it down—perfectly half-eaten—his eyes alert.

"What?" asked Derek.

"I have to go pee. Be right back."

Derek rolled his eyes as the teen got up and left, very nearly knocking over a tray of soft drinks from a waiter's well-balanced hand as he squeezed past the corner booth. A yelp, a hastily muttered apology; and Stiles disappeared behind the door, the chromed cartoon of a monocled gentleman slowly swinging to a close.

Derek gave his lemon iced tea a half-hearted stir, the reality that he was going to go hungry today no longer met with dismay but with defeated acceptance. He glared at the abominable pile of fried vegetables in thinly-veiled disgust, its likeness to a mass of dismembered grasshoppers coated in congealed bile both nauseating and confusing; the appellation "Appetizer" an egregious misnomer.

Sighing, Derek grabbed the plate and walked out of the booth, his destination the trash can in the corner. His stomach released another low rumble as he passes Stiles's seat. Derek stopped.

_Maybe. . ._

No, that's insane. Don't even think about it.

 _But it smells so_ good _._  Derek stole a glance at the bathroom door.  _Stiles is still inside. Surely he wouldn't notice a tiny little bite. . ._

Derek set down the Green Bean Crispers, then hesitantly lowered himself before the half-eaten burger; the delicious scents very nearly overpowering him in his famished state. Tentatively, he gave the burger a wary little prod; as though it were a landmine and it would take off his head without exercised caution.

Then, apprehension fleeting briefly across his face, he took a tiny nibble on the edge; and moaned in pleasure as the bacon juices spilled onto his tongue. He put the burger back down, and satisfied that it doesn't really look any different, he started to leave; then stopped.

_Maybe. . . just another bite._

Convinced that another nibble still wouldn't be in any way noticeable, Derek once again tasted heaven dancing upon his tongue. Then, setting it back down with the immaculate attention and delicacy of an art thief, he turned to leave.

_More._

Every delightful nibble that Derek took made him feel warmer, and happier; but these rippling moments of intense joy were far too fleeting, and despite promising himself each time that it will be his last, he ends up wanting more, and  _getting_  more. The nibbles grew more bold, more dauntless; even as the indentations upon the burger grew progressively larger and larger with frightening acceleration.

A little part of Derek was horrified by what was happening, but that part has, sadly, no control whatsoever over the barely recognizable  _animal_  uncaringly guzzling away at the vanishing remains of what used to be Stiles's cheeseburger. He licked the salt off his lips, still far from sated; but much less not so. Derek heaved a contented sigh.

_Uh oh._

The animal slouched sneakily away into the void, abandoning the pair of now terrified wide eyes to stare in mortification at the lone lettuce leaf resting vacantly on the plate.

Sneakered footsteps echoed across bathroom tiles—springs creaking as the doorknob turned—and Derek did the only rational thing that one could possibly do in such dire situations of impending criminal discovery.

There was a scuffle as Derek hid under the table.

The red sneakers slowed down to a halt a few yards away from the booth, their owner staring at the empty seats and his equally empty plate in utter confusion.

So what if it was a stupid thing to do? Derek  _panicked._

Stiles lowered himself into his seat, the fringe of the table cloth brushing against the top of his thighs—thighs spread widely apart—and Derek tried his very best not to stare at the. . . area between. His nose was picking up scents; manly,  _wonderful_ scents from the place that he was most definitely not staring at, and he feels his arms drag his body forward by an involuntary inch.

Fuck, it's like the burger all over again.

"Christy?" Stiles's voice caused the alpha to jump, a violent jerk which banged the back of his head into the table.

_Ow. Not quite what he meant by doing it later._

"What was that?" asked the owner of the slightly-raised red sandals, her abrupt arrival swift and silent like the snake that she is.

It may by now be apparent to the reader that Derek wasn't really very fond of Christy.

"What was what?"

"The table—I think it just shook," said Christy slowly, and Derek locked his teeth together, his eyes wide with nervous fear. She shrugged. "Never mind, it was probably just a tremor. . . so, what did you want? I see you've finished your burger, it was delicious, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Stiles's voice was impatient, strained. "Did you see where the other guy went? You know, the tall guy who was scowling all the time?"

Derek scowled under the table.

"You mean the vegetarian?"

"Yeah. . . the vegetarian."

"I'm afraid not, didn't he tell you where he went?" asked Christy in surprise. "Wow, he didn't even touch his Green Bean Crispers, he must have left in a hurry!"

Derek nodded in silent agreement, his hair brushing back and forth against the underside of the table.

"Damn it, where the hell did he go?" The alpha could see Stiles's fists clenching as he rose to his feet.

"Can't you just call him?"

"No, no," Stiles said quickly, presumably shaking his head. "He doesn't have a cellphone."

"No  _phone_?" the waitress's voice was one of shock. Honestly, some people need to chill the fuck out; Scott had a less exaggerated reaction after learning that Derek was a werewolf. "How does he  _survive?_ "

"The stupid wolf just steals mine whenever he needs to text or call someone," said Stiles in frustration, an arm disappearing from view to run through his non-existent hair. "Argh, I can't believe that he just disappeared like that, without even  _telling_  me."

Derek really didn't think this through. He was half-considering revealing himself and coming up with some half-assed explanation about having dropped a shirt button or something when Christy interrupted.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

Derek's heart stopped; the only sound the rapid series of impeccably timed burps from the corner booth.

"What?" Stiles said finally, stunned.

"I'm sorry—but it's just, there's this thing with the two of you. . . It's this  _química_ — I mean, this _chemistry_  that just sizzles, you know? And the way you're so agitated right now, just because he's been gone for 2 minutes—I can see it in your eyes, it's not just worry there. . . is it disappointment? No. . . it's something else, something  _more_."

Stiles doesn't speak, and the alpha wasn't sure if he should be upset that he couldn't see the teen's face; or  _glad_.

Probably glad.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! I can't believe that I just said that! It was none of my business, I completely stepped over the lin—"

"No no no," Stiles was saying in placation. "I was just a little bit surprised, that's all. I mean, me, and  _that guy_? Not in a thousand years, no way. Nuh uh. Not if you paid me a million bucks. Not if  _everyone_  in the  _world_  paid me a million bucks. Hell, not even if a meteorite killed everybody else and my only options were him, and hooking up with Darth Vader or Peter Griffin or one of those creepy dwarves from Snow White."

The tablecloth masked irrational hurt.

"Okay. . ." Christy said doubtfully. "So—"

"Oh crap, he was my ride!" Stiles yelped in sudden realization, and the red sneakers vanished from sight; followed shortly by the ringing peals of bells, tinkling away hurriedly on the swinging glass doors.

"—are you going to pay?" Christy trailed off, addressing thin air. "Oh,  _mierda_ , now what do I do?"

She screamed as Derek poked his head from under the table.

Ignoring her, he slammed a fifty down on the table and stomped towards the doors, spilling the remainder of his iced tea over the head of one obnoxiously laughing frat boy as he passes the booth. The guy's mouth gaped open in disbelief, trembling from both the shocking cold and sheer outrage; but Derek didn't care, and apparently, neither did his friends; who simply laughed madly away like a pack of prepubescent hyenas.

Stiles was peering into the the side of his Camaro, his hand sheltering his squinting eyes and the tinted glass from the sun like an awning. He moved away from the car, his eyes still squinted; this time in confusion.

There was a shrill beep and a sharp click as the latches retracted, unlocking the car.

Stiles stared at Derek in surprise. "Where  _were_  you?"

Derek said nothing, flinging open the door then slamming it shut as he got behind the wheel. He waited.

"Err. . . hello?" Stiles opened the passenger door and stared at the alpha, his right eyebrow cocked in questioning askance, and the irritation of being ignored.

Derek growled. A deep, savage,  _murderous_  sound which bore similitude to nothing any natural beast may conjure, evocative of burning villages and the screaming people attempting to flee; in futility.

Stiles gulped.

"Right, I just remembered—we didn't pay Christy, so—"

"Get in." Derek's voice was dangerously calm, a precarious tick away from snapping.

Stiles briefly considered running away—the image of his blood splattered across the windshield a difficult premonition to ignore—but reasoned that Derek would probably chase him down anyway.

Stiles secured his seat belt into place, and winced at the sharp click—a harrowing sound which declared his imprisoning bondage with an awful finality. He smiled nervously at Derek though the rear-view mirror—and Derek turned to stare back at him, sans mirror. Teeth; but no smile.

This was going to be a long ride.

~TBC~

* * *

~TBC~

1) Whew, I've finally updated—sorry for the wait guys (and by guys I mean 2 people and a cat).

2) Someone mentioned Stiles being a bit of an asshole in my story, but that's the vibe I get from him in the show, you know? I like to think that it's just a defense mechanism—and despite the gruff exterior, he's pretty nice inside actually.

3) Next up, the library!


	5. The Porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you like me?"
> 
> "I'd like you better if your face weren't so close, any closer and you'd puncture me with those spikes you call a stubble."
> 
> And to Stile's great horror the alpha began rubbing his face against his own, like a puppy, but who was also a cactus.

_Chapter 5: The Porn_

* * *

_Chapter 5: The Porn_

"Find a ladder."

"I already told you that, I can't find one! What do you want me to do, find some hemp, skin it and twist a rope ladder with my bare hands? Hemp is illegal in the state, Derek, are you seriously just going to stand there and nonchalantly incite me towards a life of crime?! Just because  _you're_  a criminal, doesn't mean-"

There was a resounding thud as the alpha slammed Stiles into the bookshelf, causing a plume of dust to rise from the yellowing tomes in the shape of what the boy could have sworn was a snarling wolf. Derek's biceps rippled as he lifted the teen by his collar, with so much jagged force that he nearly tore it apart.

" _Find. A. Ladder,_ " Derek repeated as he glared into the boy's bewildered eyes, his words dripping with what could only be described as pure loathing.

"But there's  _no ladder_! I've checked the entire accursed hall, you stupid wolf! That's why I said we shouldn't have gone to the town library in the first place, because it was under renovations! But nooo, you were worried people would see us reading at the school library because you thought the girl with carrot hair was a spy for the alphas! She had a pink plastic protector on her phone Derek, a  _pink plastic phone,_ with hello kitty stickers stuck on it; and you think she was 007! Who did you think the kid in the baseball cap was then,  _Captain Planet_? Was the guy next to him reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being a  _power ranger_?! Because guess what, right next to Mighty Morphin' was a ladder, and if we had been there instead, we could have been reading about the Gleipnir right now instead of risking my dad's job and breaking into public sector, and  _then_ realising that we couldn't reach the book we wanted because it was  _twenty feet_  high up in the ceiling!"

There was a pause as Stiles finished, leaving Derek to slowly lift a muscular arm to wipe a fleck of spit off his face.

"Chairs," Derek said coldly.

"Chairs? Pithy as usual, Derek. Really, chairs. Of course! I had never even considered chairs before. Any other nouns you'd like to point out? Like," Stiles rolled his eyes as he mimicked the alpha's voice. "Table. Tree. Raw Rabbit. Life is full circle and earth nurture all."

The alpha's arm snapped upwards, lifting him by another foot into the air and stretching his collar beyond repair; before releasing him, letting the freckled teen stumble to the ground in a yelp of surprise.

"Stack the chairs upon each other and climb up there to reach the book."

Stiles scowled as he examined his collar, which now drooped towards the front revealing the beginnings of a freckled chest. "Now, was that so hard? Forming a coherent sentence? Maybe next time, Derek, learn to communicate like the rest of civilisation before you ruined someone's favourite shirt."

The alpha said nothing, and grumbling, Stiles moved towards the table behind him, and pulled out a cushioned chair.

"You can't stack these!" Stiles said in irritation, grimacing. "The legs spread too far apart and the cushion prevents them from fitting."

There was a silent pattering of footsteps as Derek moved next to Stiles, examining the chair. He cocked his head as though deep in thought, and without uttering a single word, tore the leather seat from the chair in a flash of claws.

Stiles's ears were still registering the sound of murdered upholstery as he gaped at the alpha in disbelief.

"Right. The legs are still too far apart, so now not only is the book still out of reach, we also have a shit chair. I hope you're pleased with yourself, " Stiles exhaled in exasperation as he squeezed his distorted collar together, his chest suddenly feeling strangely vulnerable in the cold library air. The alpha shifted slightly. "Look," Stiles said, as he pulled out another chair and carried it to the bookshelf, taking a second to gauge the position of the book before settling it down beneath it.

"Just... give me a lift," he said to Derek with a grunt, as he clambered on top of the chair. "If I stood on your shoulders I should be able to reach the book. You can lift me, right? You just vandalised that chair after all, you should be pleased at more opportunities to demonstrate how ' _ooh, I strong man can move things around_ '."

Derek shot him a withering look.

"Well, what are you waiting for, an invitation card?" Stiles spread out his arms in frustration. "We haven't got all day you know?"

Reluctantly, Derek shuffled silently before the teen. Stiles found it interesting to note that, even from his perch on the chair, the alpha still managed to look down at him through the end of his nose. "Right, now, just turn around and I'll step on to your shoulders."

Derek scowled, but complied nevertheless, at least, until a certain familiar scent invaded his nostrils. It was a combination of clean sweat and crisply fresh fabric and-

Derek whipped around so quickly that if he were in a car, an airbag would have hit him in the face.

There were two resolute smacks as Stiles flung his sneakers on to the laminated wooden floors, rolling his eyes at the alpha's look of shock. "Look, I don't like this any more than you do okay? But I'm not exactly a cheerleader; just because I bring mirth and joy to the lives of the emotionally-challenged, I'm not automatically granted gymnastic prowess. Now get a grip, pinch your supernose or something and turn around; the sooner this is over the better."

Hesitantly, Derek turned around, nearly jumping when he felt the teen's warm, tentative foot searching for purchase on his right shoulder. He tried not to breathe in the aroma he had previously only caught fleeting whiffs of; but was now instead emanating merely two inches from his face. When the socked (black) foot finally settled, it was all Derek could do not to stare, and he blushed in shame when he realised that he wanted nothing better than to stuff the entire velvety hunk of foot into his greedy mouth.

"Right," came Stile's voice, jolting Derek with guilt and surprise. "I'm going to place my other foot now, so just, try and hold on to my calves or something so I don't fall and break a leg, because that would be bad. I repeat, that would be bad; then, walk on to the chair, and I'll grab the book."

Derek put a hand against Stile's shin to steady him, and grunted slightly as the other foot brought with it all of the teen's weight. Grasping both calves, Derek began to make his way up the chair. The teen wobbled slightly, forcing him to slide his hands up to his knees to keep him from falling. With a feeling of dread, Derek realised that both his hands were extended past the hem of the teen's slacks, where he felt the sudden dark warmth and the coarse fabric brushing against his knuckles.

"Get. The book," Derek gritted through his teeth, the state of his head being cooped between the teen's two socked feet causing his cheeks to flame a deep scarlet.

"I'm looking, for it, give me a damned minute won't you? There are literally forty books and none of them have labels on their bindings."

At this, Derek tilted his head upward to get a better look, to which he quickly snapped his head back down to stare resolutely at his own feet.

_Don't look. Don't look. Don't look..._

_White. Calvin Klein._

_Fuck._

"Hurry the fuck up," Derek grunted, even as he could feel the pressure of Stile's clothed feet upon his shoulders, travelling down his body, and causing the beginnings of that familiar twitch in his groin.

_Don't twitch. Don't twitch. Don't twitch..._

_Fuck._

"Got it! ' _On Euhemerisation Of The Prose Edda_ '! It was right at the very end of the shelf too... the Dewey Decimal System strikes again." Stiles looked down at the alpha between his feet, and waved the green leatherbound book at him triumphantly. "So, do I jump down or something?"

"Wait, I'll get off the chair first," Derek gritted out, even as the chain reactions started by that first twitch were igniting in his pants like the Fourth of fucking July. He could feel it rising with every movement, the mauve eye poking its way out of the foreskin tentatively like a wyrm, waking drowsily from a long winter; hungering for a juicy morsel to swallow.

 _There is nothing to swallow, you stupid fuck. Go back to sleep._  But like a belligerent child, it wouldn't, and Derek could feel it begin to tent his boxers, threatening to poke through the slit in the front. As he alighted the chair and Stiles clambered down his back, he was thankful that he had foregone trousers and had chosen to wear jeans instead that day; the last thing he needed was for Stiles to see his crotch do a pinocchio.

"Right," Stiles said, dusting off the book as he spread it out on the desk, completely oblivious to the alpha's inner turmoil (and activity). "Let's see if you were worth breaking two windows and a chair for, shall we?" the teen muttered as he began to rapidly flip through the pages.

 _Down. Think of grandma. Her wrinkly old face. Her snow_   _white_ _hair. And she's trying to feed me breakfast cereal._

Slowly, but surely, the tent in his intimacies deflated like a flan in a cupboard. Derek sighed in relief. His grandmother didn't do much for him; in fact, she despised him, and was ultimately torn apart by the pack for trying to poison him by putting wolfsbane in his bowl of coco puffs. It is therefore pleasing to Derek that she could at least perform this service, and he made a mental note call upon her more frequently in the future.

He took a seat next to Stiles, watching as the teen skimmed paragraph after paragraph of verbosity with the discriminating efficiency of a professional proofreader. He began to relax. The anger from the events at the restaurant was dissipating slowly, like a clouded haze lifting from his mind, forgotten under the evening sun that was shining through the tall gothic windows of the library, casting the room in a pleasantly warm shade of orange. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Derek was alone, truly, truly alone with Stiles, and there was but peaceful quiet.

Derek could hear his own breathing, slow, and yet rugged, as though his calm belied certain urgency. He turned his gaze from the crystalline dust gently falling from the void, into light and into abyss with the inaudible whisper of ancient constancy, and observed the teen next to him, feeling his breathing slow to a stop. Under the sun, his hair gleamed a fiery auburn, setting aflame the occasional speck of silver dust which fell upon his crown; and Derek felt a sudden puerile urge to pin the teen down the table, and blow at his hair until all the dust was sent flying, as an errant child would do a dandelion.

Under the light (now dusk, Derek enjoyed blowing at dandelions) his intense, intelligent eyes sparkled with a brilliance which Derek knew was not entirely borrowed; and Derek could scarcely believe the detail that was reflected in those eyes: of the sun, of the book he perused, of the stoic library walls surrounding them and of his own image teetering at its edge. Derek frowned as an irrational twinge of jealousy washed over him; blast that ghastly book,  _he_  should be the one at the center of those speckled brown eyes, as he claimed those arrogant, but-oh-so-soft lips and melted them into his own.

Slowly, carefully, Derek moved himself towards the teen, his scent and perfection drawing him in like a moth to flame.  _Fuck, he smells so good._

"What are you doing?" Stiles looked up from the pages, having sensed the alpha's increasingly close proximity. His gaze was nonplussed, questioning.

"I..." Derek stared into the teen's eyes, seeing his own reflection, which only served to fluster him further. Surely, it would be apparent if such attention from his part were to linger, even from so oblivious a character as Stiles; if he so chose to hold the gaze, words would no longer serve as necessary abstraction, so he had only a limited amount of time to make his decision. His mind worked furiously away, and his pulse raced to feed its machinations; but he could see within Stiles' eyes that his own were solemn, and did not betray his fear.

"You... what?" The bemusement in the teen's voice had faded, replaced by what could only be described as suspicion.

Derek's lips remained ever so slightly parted, unwilling to complete all the nothing he had wanted to say. Silence will finish this sentence for him, he thought, to break it would be cowardice.

He continued to hold Stile's gaze, solemn and plaintive; even as his heart drummed against his throat.

Stiles eyes widened; for even he was not that obtuse.

"Derek..." Stiles' voice was one of tentative disbelief, as though more forthright incredulity would shatter the fabric of this glass skein that they had woven fantastic around them. "What are you trying to say?"

"I... like you," Derek said slowly, as the world came crashing down around him to a deathly halt. It was silent before, but now he felt as though the void had swallowed him with each carefully uttered word, and all that existed now was him and Stiles. He could no longer hear anything but the blood which pounded so frenziedly in his ears, or see anything but the red which had glazed over his eyes. His universe now hinged on Stiles, and only Stiles, and Stiles alone can put him out of this state of limbo.

For what felt like an eternity, Stiles said nothing, his brow knitted together in a deep frown.

"Is this a joke?" the teen finally said, all cajolery gone from his voice. Derek could tell by the way Stiles stared into his eyes - all earnest and grave and wide-eyed brown - that the teen didn't really harbour any doubts. Derek had always held reservations about Stiles' perceptiveness, in part due to the sardonic dismissiveness with which he dealt with others, and the flippant insouciance with which he carried himself. He always thought of him as intelligent, but vacuous; quicksilver, but oblivious... And yet now, staring into those serious, inquisitive eyes; he realised that Stiles had always been far more perspicacious than he had let on. _  
_

"Well?"

"No. I have liked you for a long time, Stiles."

"But... but you hate me!" Stiles said incredulously, and Derek cringed as the skein shattered with a soundless whoosh. "Is this some kind of alpha forgiveness kind of thing? Because I don't... I don't fucking understand! In what way do you...  _like_  me? Do you like me in the way Oprah likes extra large cokes and giving away free stuff or... in the way," Stiles looked genuinely perturbed, and shook his head as though to clear his mind "...In the way, someone likes someone. Like Scott with Allison and Englebert with Useless Girl?"

"Like Scott and Allison... and Englebert," Derek said solemnly, struggling to keep the nervousness out of his voice as he ignored the pounding in his ears.

There was a silent thud as Stiles closed the tome before him. He ran a hand through his hair, and frowned, as he looked up at the ceiling and said, "I don't know what to think, Derek."

And he froze, as Derek rested his hand upon his own. It was strong, as expected, like iron; and yet surprisingly soft, like dry cotton wool. The alpha entwined their fingers upon the cool maple desk, and Stiles stared at the gesture in conflicted silence.

"Just don't say no."

"I'm sorry, but this is all just happening so fast. No more than five minutes ago you hated my guts, as you always have. You throw me around, you glare, you snarl, you threaten to tear out my... my throat-" Stiles stuttered as the alpha drew himself closer, his warm breath falling upon his nose. "I just need time to think about this. I've never even considered you in tha... thaat... unnhh" he trailed off, moaning, as Derek nibbled on his ear.

Stiles pushed him away. "Oookay, way too fast. Slow down tiger."

"I like you," Derek said again, gazing seriously into his eyes. "I really, really like you Stiles. But I'll stop if you wanted me to. Just say the word, and I'll leave."

"What.. what about the Gleipnir?" Stiles said, his face flushed. He had never thought... the way Derek was looking at him now, like he were the only person that mattered in the world, like his entire being hinged upon what he was about to say... it was bizarre; but he could not deny that, now, actually observing the man for the first time in...  _that_ way, that he was incredibly attractive. He was tall and strong and, yes he could be a prick from time to time, but Stiles knew that the alpha wasn't  _actually_  a spawn of hell, despite all the jokes Stiles had cracked about his tear ducts being decorative and his boss being Lucifer. But still, it was all just so... so surreal.

"I'll go over to your house tomorrow to discuss it, and we'll forget all this ever happened," said Derek, his voice measured and flat; but Stiles sensed the tension in his voice, and the slight tightening of his hand around his when it was uttered.

"I don't know Derek. You can't just pull this complete one-eighty and spring this up on me out of the blue. This is so unreal, you know what it makes me feel like? I feel like I'm in a fucking dream, or one of those hidden camera, fly on the wall, Narnia gloryhole documentary shows, I need more time to consiideeer... unnhh... Stop doing that!"

Derek pulled back from Stile's ear, and stared at him expressionlessly. "Don't you like that?"

"I don't! I... Okay, okay, maybe I do, but I don't know if I wanted  _you_  to be the one doing that to me," Stiles expostulated, flushing. "And your face, wayyy too close."

"Do you like me?"

"I'd like you better if your face weren't so close, any closer and you'd puncture me with those spikes you call a stubble."

And to Stile's great horror the alpha began rubbing his face against his own, like a puppy, but who was also a cactus.

"Oh my god, stop- what are you doing!" Stiles tried to push the alpha and the sandpaper that was his face off of him, but was giggling too hard to find the strength to do any more than flail. And there were two problems with that, namely a) there was absolutely nothing amusing about the situation, and b) Stiles does not fucking giggle.

Stiles writhed in his seat, as he giggled the fuck away, when somehow Derek manoeuvred him onto the table and continued to vigorously rub his stubble against him as though in a frantic attempt to scrub his freckles away.

"Stop,  _hee_ ,  _hee_ , Derek, please fucking stop!"

The alpha obliged, and stared down at him with bored eyes. "Do you like me?"

"I..." Stiles panted breathlessly, trying to stop smiling as his chest heaved up and down from the what-the-fuck-even-was-that session. "... I don't know. Maybe? I'm still trying to-"

And Derek kissed him.

"You-"

And again.

"Wait-"

And again.

"Unh-"

And this time he lingered.

Stiles could no longer keep up. The tirade of sensations and madness that had occurred in the past ten minutes have distracted him to the very brink of reality, and he felt his eyes squeeze shut from the evening darkness of the universe and into the explosions of colours that Derek was now causing him to see, the alpha's hands pinning down his arms as his tongue lapped at his lips, teasing them open in tandem with every prickle of his stubble. His body was pressed against his, and instead of weight and obligation all Stiles felt was security and heat; burning, searing hot heat, radiating from his body on to his own. Stiles felt like he was beginning to fall to pieces; his arms went limp, his legs began to spread apart, and he moaned and moaned as his lips widened, allowing the alpha's tongue to stroke boldly into his mouth, tasting and conquering every nook and cranny of him that he could not possibly have known he had.

Tentatively, the teen moved his own tongue into Derek's mouth, which to his surprise the alpha seized upon eagerly, licking it and sucking it and nibbling at it, as though it were his own and he were trying to seduce it into its return. Stiles groaned, his mouth widening in an attempt to consume more of the alpha's face, which Derek took as indication to reciprocate. So ravenous and greedy was their exchange that they looked for all the world like a pair of cannibals, each trying to swallow the other whole, their bodies rocking and sliding against each other in a torrid, frenzied ritual.

Stiles, was aroused.

Hardly thinking through exactly what he was about to do, he began sliding his hand down the alpha's abdomen, feeling the clear rungs of his musculature as his hand rustled against his shirt, stopping plaintively as his fingertips collided against the top of his jeans. He could feel Derek rocking harder now, his knees spreading his thighs apart in anticipation of what Stiles was about to do, though Stiles had no idea what it was. His hand tried to wriggle its way down Derek's jeans, but the belt held too fast and too true. Realising this, Derek tried to unbuckle it himself, but Stiles pushed his hand away, far too impatient to wait.

In constancy, his hand travelled down across the offending belt, ignoring it entirely as he searched for something else in the vicinity. His ring finger brushed against the side of something which he surmised was Derek's manhood, judging by the way the alpha grunted in pleasure and humped against his hand in response. Stiles nibbled on the alpha's lip, signalling him to be patient, as he found the slider to Derek's zipper and began to pull it down; but slowly, tantalising the alpha with both sordid anticipation and the minute brass vibrations released upon his manhood, which raged against the zipper to the brink of bursting it apart. When the zipper was halfway down, Derek humped impatiently, reaching down to release his manhood himself, but Stiles slapped his hand away.

"Wait," Stiles said amidst gasps of air, tearing himself away from Derek's wrestling tongue to look seriously into the alpha's reproachful eyes. "Be patient, or I'll stop."

Stiles hovered his hand over Derek's groin, barely brushing against it; at once, the alpha attempted to hump the limb, but in tragic futility, Stiles moving his hand in tandem with the alpha's thrusts, resulting in nothing more rewarding for Derek than fucking air.

Stiles gripped the slider for the zipper once again, and said, "remember, be a good boy, or I'll stop."

Derek whined.

At last the zipper was fully retracted, and Stiles dipped his hand into Derek's jeans, taken aback by the sudden, damp warmth. He took great care to keep to the fabric of the jeans, so as to not brush against anything prematurely, namely the steaming rod of flesh that was radiating heat like a furnace. Derek tried to hump his hand again, but Stiles grabbed on to the alpha's thigh for purchase, depriving him of much-wanted friction. Derek slumped in defeat, and satisfied, Stile's fingers travelled slowly across the alpha's boxers, found the opening, and pulled them apart; allowing Derek's cock to emerge from the toothed fly like a tin parcel plopping out of a mail slot.

Stile's wrapped his hand around it and pulled on it like a leash, the foreskin slipping over the head and soaking the tip with precum.

"Up," he said to the alpha raspily, using his thumb to rub the head of his manhood in a circular fashion, spreading the precum all over the bulbous end and causing Derek to writhe in unrestrained pleasure. Stiles stopped.

"Get up and sit on the edge of the table," Stiles said bossily, staring into Derek's eyes, which were glazed with lust. The alpha grinned toothily, and obliged; sat on the desk looking for all the world like a normal, impossibly handsome library user in jeans, a white shirt and a leather jacket, save for the six inches of light brown uncut cock sticking out of his fly, lazily dripping precum like a bulbed-shaped elevator suspended by a long, crystal thread.

The sight made Stiles' mouth water.

He pulled out a chair and sat before the alpha's groin, inhaling the manly scents of cock and precum, and admiring the perfection that was Derek's cock. It wasn't very long, but the shape which curved only very slightly upwards and the silky texture of its foreskin made it irresistible. Stiles had seen many educational-because-porn-is-educational videos before, and never before had he seen a cock that appealed to him quite the same way that Derek's did, from the way it was throbbing furiously in his face, to its angry red-tip and the slit which made it look like Derek was holding him at gunpoint from the waist down, and to the beautiful way that jerking the penis caused the foreskin to retract and re-envelope the head with every push and pull. Stiles dove in closer to get a better look, and holding the alpha's manhood in his hand, he rubbed his index finger across the precum-soaked slit; causing the alpha to shudder in pained pleasure.

Emboldened, Stiles spent the next ten minutes jerking, twitching, pinching, and rubbing Derek's cock; eliciting so many different tantalising sounds from the alpha that Stiles' own manhood was poking through the top of his slacks, leaving a dark brown spot where the precum had spilled. He was pinching Derek's foreskin together between his fingertips and sliding it round and round the head, when Derek let out a great howl, stood himself up and pushed Stiles into his groin.

"I can't take it any more," Derek growled with lust, trapping Stiles under his waist as he glared at him with coal red eyes. "Let me fuck your mouth."

Stiles was more than happy to oblige, opening his mouth to provide access to the angry manhood painting its precum all over his lips. Derek moaned in ecstasy, and grabbing the back of Stiles' head began to fuck his mouth in the earnest, his cock whitewashing Stiles' mouth and the back of his throat in precum and slime. Then his thrusts began to grow less methodic, and more erratic, carnal, slamming his hips into the teen's face as he jerked himself in and out of his mouth like a carousel horse with a jagged pole.

"Stiles, stop, I'm going to come," Derek growled, releasing the teen's head. But Stiles had other ideas.

Grabbing on to the alpha's jean-clad buttocks, Stiles impaled his face again and again on Derek's raging cock, taking care to rub its head against the roof of his mouth and giving it a good suck every time it entered the cavity between his teeth and lips. Derek struggled to release himself, but did so in vain, as he was milked of his seed rope by rope down Stiles' greedy throat, savouring every gulp even as Derek roared in ecstasy.

As the last drops of his seed had been sucked dry, the alpha pulled his cock out from between Stiles' lips with a sickening plop, before collapsing in a chair in exhaustion. He looked up in a happy daze as the teen moved before him, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve.

Stiles pulled down his slacks, revealing an eight inch monster pointed towards the heavens, with a foreskin large enough to cover Nebraska. He grinned.

"My turn."

~TBC~

* * *

~TBC~

1\. Don't worry, Derek won't be getting off quite so easily. Despite this gratuitous amount of porn Stiles rewarded him with, there _will still_ _be_ plenty of puppy-kicking in the future, yay!

2\. Yeah, I'm back. Kinda.

3\. And am trying to rediscover the writing style for this fic. Sarcastic American isn't that easy to do.


End file.
